


Love You All, Die For This

by cynosure_phrases



Series: The Life of Oliver Pitch [1]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Adoption, Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Domestic Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, Family, Family Dynamics, Flashbacks, Friendship, Healthy Relationships, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Multiple, Parenthood, Post-Canon, Post-Watford (Simon Snow), Protective Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Surrogacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-07-07 14:01:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 37,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15909690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynosure_phrases/pseuds/cynosure_phrases
Summary: A chuckle slips through my throat as I lean against the wall, eyes drifting over his hunched figure as he rifles through the bag for an outlet cover here or a cabinet lock there. I suppose it’s my fault that he bought everything that various Mummy Blogs I’d found (and he obsessed over) suggested as “Mum Certified” objects; I enable him, but I can’t help it. The last time I saw him this excited was when we got referred to as “Mr. and Mr. Pitch” for the first time (and that was at the bank of all places).-Simon and Baz have been married for a good couple years and made the decision to have a child. Life has other plans for them, though.





	1. Don't Worry

**Author's Note:**

> big thank you to my betas @ravenclawbaz and @jessethejoyful on tumblr!
> 
> i have to say to start this off that despite this being listed as a parenting fic, it really isn't. it's a family fic; it's about chosen family, no matter how big or small it is

**SIMON**

 

I don’t tell him enough, but I love him more than he can imagine.

 

Granted, we’ve been together for seven years and married for three, but sometimes, I still look at Baz and remind myself to tell him how I feel. Tell him he’s my world. After everything. After uni, after my breakdown following graduation. He picked up the pieces; he believed in me. He still does. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but Baz is there. 

 

Beautiful, brilliant Baz Pitch is still somehow here with his magick-less husband whose wings take up half the bed and still has nightmares and nonverbal days. And, Merlin, I love him for that.

 

I remind myself to say it again. “I love you,” I whisper into his ear, bending over him as he tries to fit a plastic cover onto an electrical outlet. We contemplated for at least 10 minutes in the shop whether or not it was the right one. It was.

 

Baz lets out a breathy laugh, rolling his eyes and replying. “I love you too, Snow. Now, will you cover the rest instead of just standing there?”

 

A smile presses through my lips. I haven’t really been ‘Snow’ legally for years. Suppose I have been, since I just opted for a double last name. Tacked on that Pitch to the end while Baz dropped his Grimm. Although,  _ nobody _ calls me Snow anymore, except Baz. I’m only Snow to him, which makes me melt a little now. I’m a Pitch, but I’m  _ his _ Snow.

 

My hands dig around the bag, looking away towards Baz as I push the contents around and find more outlet covers. Carefully, one by one, I set them throughout the house, reminding me of the meticulous baby proofing Baz insists on, despite the fact that the surrogate has only just been picked. I can’t blame him for his eagerness, though; he is the one who brought the baby thing up first.

 

It isn’t that I don’t want a child; he doesn’t seem to understand that because he keeps asking if I am sure.  _ I am sure _ . I am absolutely sure, and I want a child more than anything at this point in life. I’ve always wanted a child, in the respect of a “typical life”. The ideal normalcy that I craved for so long. Married life, a kid or two, and the bliss of not constantly running after some monster.

 

I’m just not sure if I can give him what  _ he _ wants out of a child; magick.

 

Of course I can’t  _ physically _ give him a child (I think that’s a tad important to this relationship), but I can’t be the father either way. I know he wants a magickal child.  _ I _ want a magickal child for him. I just… can’t give that.

 

He says he loves me either way. Sometimes, I worry that isn’t true. I can only hope it is true.

 

I can only hope, as he wraps his arms around me and kisses my temple, that it’s genuine. And as I kiss him back, I hope that he can feel how much I want him to be happy.

 

Can someone feel that?

 

I hope so.

 

“Do we really have to put up a baby gate this early?” I mumble against his lips, feeling his curl up into a smile.

 

“Don’t you fancy tripping over knee-high walkway blockers? I thought that it’d be a lovely exercise of looking-where-you’re-walking,” he quips, fingers lacing closer around the small of my back.

 

I roll my eyes, pinching his arm before planting a kiss on his cheek. “Surprisingly not what I’d want to have in the way at 3 am.”

 

“Hm. Pity.” His arms drop, hand flying to catch mine and eyes meeting. He gives me one of his beautiful, just-for-Snow smiles. “Better to be ready than rushing.”

 

“ _ At least  _ t _ en _ months early?”

 

His lips press to my knuckles before he drops them too, swiftly strolling off to the living room, shifting through the bags of baby proofing latches and the like. “ _ Never _ too early, Snow.”

 

A chuckle slips through my throat as I lean against the wall, eyes drifting over his hunched figure as he rifles through the bag for a cover here or a cabinet lock there. I suppose it’s my fault that he bought everything that various Mummy Blogs I’d found (and he obsessed over) suggested as “Mum Certified” objects; I enable him, but I can’t help it. The last time I saw him this excited was when we got referred to as “Mr. and Mr. Pitch” for the first time (and that was at the bank of all places).

 

And now here he is, listing off our plans until we have a squirming real-life child of our own; a possibility that hadn’t even been a real thought for us until about a year and a half ago when Penny had her second.

 

In the airport rush, getting to our gate with carry-ons in hand and Baz’s hair pulled back into what I like to call the “onion sprout” ponytail, he looked at me and asked “Why don’t we have a kid already?”

 

And I didn’t have an answer for him.

 

Because, frankly, I wasn’t sure either. Sure, we’d mentioned it a couple times, but never in the respect of having one in the foreseeable,  _ plannable _ future. It was always “Yeah, a baby sounds nice” or “When we get old, our kids will have to wheel our bitter arses around”. But it was never the question of why we didn’t have one  _ yet _ .

 

Then Penny made it worse.

 

As Baz held Rosemary (whose name was given because Penny joked that there needed to be another herb name in the family), Penny looked at him, then me, and said “What’s taking you two so long?”

 

So, of course, we talked about a baby on the flight home.

 

It started as an “Adopt or surrogate?” This lead to Baz tiptoeing around the fact that I was orphaned (“Those kids need homes…” “I know, Baz, I was one of  _ those kids _ .” “I meant… oh you know.” “Yes, but what do  _ you _ want?”). Then we settled on surrogate, eventually, because we both agreed that it would be best because magickal children are almost never orphaned (which, I suppose, I’m the only known abnormality to cause that  _ almost _ ).

 

Afterall, we  _ can’t _ have a normal kid. Not when one of us is a vampire and the other has wings and a tail, for crying out loud. 

And now here we are, shuffling around no more than a week after the surrogate was confirmed,  getting everything ready for a baby we weren’t even planning on two years ago.

 

And I couldn’t be happier. Granted, Baz is a complete and utter git and at least a  _ tad _ dramatic when it comes to baby supplies, but that’s how he is, and I love that.

 

I love watching him huff over the door hatches, looking at me as he tries it out, pouting when it falls off with one too-hard nudge. “That’s utter shit,” he curses under his breath, glaring at the latch. “That’s not supposed to happen.”

 

I laugh under my breath, going over to examine it. I feel Baz’s hand press to the bottom of my back, my wing extending out around his shoulder as I read the instructions. “Did you hold the glue for 20 seconds?”

 

“I counted to ten,” Baz snaps impatiently, sticking the plastic stopper to the door of the cabinet and stubbornly holding it once more. “I’ll spell it on if I have to.”

 

I give a quick nudge into his side and look at him pointedly, clearing my throat. “If I have to do it one way,  _ you _ have to do it one way. Even-even.”

 

He pouts and says “Even-even” with me, knowing too well about the house rule.

 

It isn’t a threat, per-say, but something we settled on once we moved back in together post-uni. It was frustrating to watch him wave his wand for something that would take me longer to do, or something worth equal effort if he did it the Normal way, so now he can’t waste magick for everyday things, so long as he could do it without. It solves an awful lot of fights, an awful lot of discomfort and memories.

 

Solves a fight here—even-even—as he holds it for 20 seconds, my head sneaking up and diving into the crook of his neck. I hum as I hear his faint, rhythmic counting off until he hits 20 and drops his hand. “There.” He closes the gate again. This time, it doesn’t fall off. I feel him roll his eyes, and I tuck my nose deeper into his skin as I grin. He must feel it, because in seconds he’s turned around to press a forceful kiss to my forehead. “It only worked because I  _ let _ it work.”

 

“Mmhm. Whatever gets you through the night, love.”

 

I hear the soft, lighthearted scoff against me as arms drape over my shoulders. “Wow, endless support. I  _ love _ my husband.”

 

The word husband makes my heart flutter every time.  _ Damn, he has me for life like that. _ “You love me more than life itself.”

 

“You could say that.”

 

“I am.”

 

He snorts shortly again. “Sure,” his words rattle against me, hands meeting behind my back as he leans his head down and swiftly presses a kiss to my lips. I beckon him to stay, hands resting against his lapels and giving them a quick yank to keep him in place as I sweetly twist his body towards mine.

 

Just after he stoops down to meet me, I let back and give him a wink, loving the way his breath hitches. “Don’t you wanna finish putting all the hooks and everything away?”

 

His eyes roll, still hunched down to trail his lips to my neck. I shoot my chin up in the air with a breathless laugh. “That can wait for later,” he mumbles against my skin, fingers locking tighter onto me, finding belt loops and pulling my hips against his thighs (lanky bastard). “I’ve got something better to do, now.”

 

I let him have his fun, cold lips pressing delicate along the slopes of my neck and collar as my tail trails along his calf before I abruptly snap back, smile drawn up. “Unless that something is dinner or working on finishing up the baby-proofing, I’m quite sure it can wait.”

 

A soft huff passes through Baz’s nose as he stands upright, cocking a brow. “Alright. Fair.” After a quick clearing of his throat and a dance around the kitchen, he stops and glances at me. “Am I cooking?”

 

I click my tongue teasingly. “You’ve got it, Pitch.”

 

A smirk plays at the corner of his lips as he throws back a glance at my moving figure, making my way out to the dining table. “Well,  _ Pitch _ , you have breakfast duty in the morning.”

 

“Fair.” I shrug, clearing off the bags of hooks and latches and whatnot. “You’re shit at pancakes anyway,” I whisper under my breath.

 

“Hm? What was that?”

 

“What? Oh, nothing, love.”

 

“I can hear you, you know,” Baz calls out over my stifled snickers as I set places for dinner. I trail into the kitchen and lift myself up onto my tiptoes to sneak a kiss onto Baz’s cheek before going off with a bottle of wine from the fridge.

 

I brace myself before popping it, pouring two glasses, and swirling my own for the effect. “Oh no, my dearest husband can hear me mock his pancake skills. Whatever shall I do?”

 

“Hm. I don’t know. I’m quite hurt.” His smile is so evident that I can hear it turn his voice. I grin back. “I suppose the only way to fix it is to kiss it better.”

 

I chuckle, setting my glass down with a soft  _ clink, _ and reach over over to trail my fingertips along the underside of his chin. He lifts it, glancing over to meet my eyes as he draws his attention from the pan.

 

After all these years, his breath still catches when I go for a kiss.

 

And,  _ still _ , after all these years, he gets caught up too quickly and I have to swat him away before the food burns. This gets followed by pouts and protests, then I have to stand next to him until he finishes cooking, my tail lightly wound around his leg for comfort as my head perches on his shoulder. I listen to him ramble on about whatever’s on his mind at the moment (right now, it’s baby names).

 

I unwind myself once he’s dished out everything and take back up my glass, finding my seat at the table. In moments, he joins me, pressing a prolonged kiss to my cared-for curls (something I started doing a couple years back; actually taking care of myself for the sake of others. Others meaning Baz). My eyes drag to his body, watching him take his usual seat across from me as he serves me then himself. We clink glasses, a soft murmur of “Cheers” from each of us before we sip and dig in.

 

My eyes raise to Baz’s face as we eat, my elbow resting against the wood of the table and my chin fitting snugly in my palm. He quirks a brow even before I speak, a smile playing at his lips.

 

That’s something else to add to the list of things that amazes me after all these years; he’s grown so comfortable.

 

At first, he was so reserved; changed in a different room, would awkwardly excuse himself before slipping out to hunt and refer to it as “doing  _ that _ thing… oh, Snow, you know what I mean”. Even when we first started messing around, he’d get all flustered and go off to the bathroom despite me being more undressed than he was (under his own doing, might I add).

 

But now, he’s just Baz. He eats without covering his mouth, he actually laughs (sometimes snorts, which is one of my favorite sounds), and he always says what he’s thinking. He exists unapologetically, and just for me.

 

He breaks my mental diverge, clearing his throat. “What’s on your mind, love?”

 

I shake out the words tumbling around in my head, blinking. “Oh, yes. I was… thinking something…” I gather my thoughts, taking a deep breath and catching his eyes. Yet another addition to the list. He’s so remarkably patient. That took a little while too, but he grew to it. “It’s just the egg. I… I hope we made the right pick, that’s all.”

 

His hand lays across the table, to which I drop the one propping my chin and meet his in the middle. “I’m positive we have,” he reassures, fingertips dancing over my pulse. I shiver, a smile pressing across my concerned expression. He drags on. “The donor’s lovely, and I don’t see a flaw in her, besides her haircut judgement.” I give him a playful kick under the table, to which he returns with a grin and a scrunch of the nose. “She’s intelligent, comes from strong magick, and she’s a mother on her own. It’ll be fine, my love.”

 

Realistically, yes, I know it’ll be fine. I know it’s fine right  _ now _ . But the lump settling in my throat says to keep pushing. To say how I feel.

 

The lump bubbles up, pressing out in a blurb. “I’m sorry I couldn’t provide.” While my voice is weak, my words carry and hit a pained expression on Baz’s face. I pause, holding my breath and wanting to fix what I said, but I’m not sure if I can. I don’t want to lie to him.

 

Slowly, Baz exhales, hand still holding mine. “I love you. I have no reason to blame you for something you can’t control.” He holds eye contact with me, and I know what he’s really saying.  _ It’s harder like this, Simon. Biology is a bitch and we can only hope this works with me because nobody knows fuck-all about vampire reproduction. _

 

I nod wordlessly. Enough has been said with very few words, but the ones being spoken out still sink to my stomach like a stone in a river, kicking up debris and sending ripples through my consciousness.  _ Fuck _ . I sip my wine, hand curling tighter around Baz’s. He gives a kind squeeze in return, the pad of his thumb dragging across the calloused and scarred back of mine. I breathe in, and out, finding what I want to say. “I love you too,” I utter.

 

He nods knowingly. We both know I mean a lot more than what I said. I’m saying that I know the consequences. I know what will happen, and I can’t say more because I can barely speak on good days. Merlin, I just love him, and it’s so much easier to say it because he knows and he’s not going to push more out.

 

We finish off the rest of dinner in silence, our hands locked together until I break them apart to clean, trying so hard to repress the numbness building in my chest. It’s familiar--almost welcoming, to an extent--because once it takes over, it’ll explode.

 

It feels friendly to me, but my therapist reminds me that it’s not a friend, but rather a roadblock that I have to step around.

 

“Baz,” I call, resting the dish I’m holding in the sink and leaving the water running. I look up, forward, straight ahead and swallow my mind. He steps in quickly, concern flooding over him.

 

Or maybe it’s been there, and it’s just hitting me now, pressing against me as his hand rests on my lower back. “Yes, love?” He asks, turning off the water swiftly and grabbing the dish towel to dry my hands.

 

“That... feeling is there.”

 

He nods as if he already knew. Again, maybe he did, and he was just waiting. He’s doing everything as if he rehearsed it: bringing me upstairs, helping me out of my shirt and trousers as he undoes his own and lays them aside (he needs to hunt later; we won’t talk about it now). We tuck in together, and he turns on the bedroom telly to some cooking show before muting it, just filtering in the bright white lights of the kitchen and the moderately paced speaking of whoever the hell this is trying to teach me how to chop an onion properly.

 

And there Baz is, holding me, tucking his face into my neck and slotting in front of me. A finger traces curved lines and ovals around my back, his hair tickling my nose as he whispers to me, trying so hard to ground me, to find me again.

 

“You wouldn’t believe the conversation I overheard today,” He says. I hear it more as echo-y vibrations than audio itself. My hands press to his back, feeling more and more of him talk rather than listening. “People are clueless, can’t even figure out 2+2 if they didn’t have a calculator next to them and someone to double check it later. Someone  _ genuinely _ asked if the other person knew the time, then the person replied, while wearing a watch, ‘ _ I don’t know _ ’. Either avoidance has hit a new low and morons are on the rise, or I’m going mad. All three, though, may be true.”

 

He keeps talking, my hands smoothing over his chilled skin and fingers taking in every rumble of words until I feel present enough to even be tired, to which he responds by pecking my cheek and pulling back. I don’t protest, knowing full well he’ll be back soon.

 

I flicker my tongue over my lips, parting them to speak but leaving my eyes closed. “Biology is an arsehole.”

 

I feel his chuckle ripple through the air as the sound of him shuffling his clothes back on simultaneously. “I know, my love, but we’re going to make that arsehole our bitch.”

 

I can’t help to giggle at that, even if it is a bit childish. “Mm. I can only hope,” I whisper, body growing heavier and heavier with each word.

 

Lips press into my hair and I hear Baz tell me “I’ll be back soon, love” before falling asleep.


	2. But That's It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Off-beige rug. Typical seats (slightly discomforting green pads with a metal frame). A large wooden desk, organized to a T. There sits the doctor, head raising to meet us as he stands up. “Mr. and Mr. Pitch,” he says calmly, extending a hand. Soft spoken. Raised in power, raised with money.
> 
> -
> 
> A final confirming visit to the doctor's. Some doubts float around, and a tad of false hope for Simon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, thank you to my betas andrea and jess (@ravenclawbaz and @jessethejoyful on tumblr!)

**BAZ**

My hands trace around the steering wheel, feeling the leather glide across my palms as my fingertips tap to the music. It’s something of Simon’s choosing. I don’t mind _The Strokes_ , really, but a song about a sexual dystopia _without_ reproduction feels like an interesting pick for the ride to the doctor’s office. I won’t question him, though (I doubt he knows the connotations), because Crowley, he seems happy enough right now with that tattered, paint splatter smile strewn across his face as his head turns to look at me and hum along.

 

By the way he smiles, you’d think that we’re ready for anything. That the concept of a ‘No’ is out of the picture; that we’re both okay, and we will be.

 

That, deep down, I’m not egregiously nauseated by this visit. That my chest is ripping itself to shreds as my mind runs laps, reminding itself over and over that this is more than uncertain; if _anything_ happens, it’s pure fucking luck.

 

Hell, it’s luck that we found a magickal doctor to confide in about the vampirism.

 

For Fiona’s sake, I can’t claim that _we_ found the doctor; it was more of her threatening the living dead of London for a reliable name in the business, then word of mouth to another reliable name, to a doctor focused on magickal surrogacy. Fiona threatened to torch his practice to the ground if word leaks that I’m a vampire.

 

To avoid complication, it’s easier to say we found someone.

 

As we pull into the lot for his practice, I can’t help but move in faster, jerking motions. Park. Unbuckle. Step out. Slam the door. Look at Snow. Wait. Tap my foot impatiently. Jut out an arm and practically yank him inside, heart pattering faster and faster and faster and faster and—

 

The brush of Snow’s hands against my jaw stops me outside the glass doors, his sweet breath tickling the underside of my jaw as he looks up at me. “Hey,” he murmurs, eyes darting around my face as I straighten out more. Composure. Don’t lack composure, don’t let it slip, you’re in control— “Baz, darling, love, sweetheart, honeybee, baby, honey, calm down. You’re getting all ‘dark and brooding’ again, and you don’t have to be. This is just discussing logistics.”

 

My heart keeps pounding, but I exhale slowly, letting my features soften to his touch. “I’m just worried, that’s all.”

 

“I know.” A finger sweeps across my forehead, tucking a loose strand behind my ear as Snow presses his lips to my cheek. “But it’s not the end of the world, yeah? We’ll do this. I love you.”

 

“I love you too,” I reply automatically, finding his hand and giving it a warm squeeze as he drifts back to stand beside me. He guides me in, his presence as prominent as always; even without magick, Snow still garners attention from everyone in the room.

 

I trail behind comfortably, sending icy glares at anyone who looks _too_ long. Sure, the tail and wings are spelled away, but I don’t want it blasted out to the entire magickal world that Natasha Pitch’s _travesty_ of a gay (vampire) son and his now (mostly) Normal husband are trying for a baby.

 

It feels weird simply existing. For the entirety of November, we’re bombarded with emails from eager third years at Watford in their Magickal Histories class asking about our lives. I blame Mrs. Bunce for that; she’s got a unit on The Mage’s rise and fall of power, and Simon, Penny, and I encompass two of ten sections. While I agree that history should be taught, I disagree that we require so much attention for what we did. It wasn’t heroic, nor was it ‘brave’.

 

It was scarring.

 

My mind continues to wander around, spinning off the tracks thinking of what others will say once it’s known that we’re trying for a child, until Snow’s hand gives a tug to my own. We’re being called back. Shit. Fuck.

 

I jerk my head towards the door and stand briskly, arm wrapping protectively around Snow’s waist as we walk back to the office.

 

The incessant buzz of the fluorescent light greets us before anything else.

 

Off-beige rug. Typical seats (slightly discomforting green pads with a metal frame). A large wooden desk, organized to a T. There sits the doctor, head raising to meet us as he stands up. “Mr. and Mr. Pitch,” he says calmly, extending a hand. Soft spoken. Raised in power, raised with money.

 

I shake it first, then wave to Simon to shake. “Pleasure to meet you, Doctor Bradford,” I say coolly, eyes drifting around the room. Medical degree. Family pictures. Thank you notes. Mild-mannered, everyday man. Mundane.

 

Perfect.

 

He waves his arms, urging us to sit as he pulls our paperwork up and clears his throat. His eyes flicker over it nervously, and I can’t help but smile secretly. Whatever Fiona said to him must’ve gotten to him.

 

“Quite an interesting case,” Dr. Bradford states flatly, glancing back to us and clearing his throat. “Well, given your… condition… I have to admit, there’s a level of uncertainty.” The clacking at the keyboard stops abruptly, his chair swiveling as he faces us completely. His hands meet in the way that adults _always_ do; folded together, palms pressed and holding so many words back as to not let you in; to keep you at bay.

 

It makes me want to throw a brick at his face. “My _condition,_ ” I draw, eyes carefully narrowing onto him as the words smooth around my mouth. He’s a target. I’m aiming my brick. “Yes, well, we are trying, nonetheless. I want to make that clear.” My back straightens, trying to press guilty words from my throat. _Snow, forgive me_. “We need a magickal child, or no child at all.”

 

The doctor simply nods, pursing his lips as he glances to Snow. Our grip tightens automatically. “I’m sorry for your loss,” the doctor says quietly, and I know that phrase. I know Snow knows that phrase. We both hear it in our sleep at this point; the pity smiles and hand pats. Everyone treats Snow as if a part of him died; it’s only socially acceptable to mention the dead part of him if in mourning. I barely hear him as he continues, my mind usually shuts off after those words (because they’re ridiculous, and a tad insensitive). “I’m sure it brings a strain, but, given the situation, would you care to share about any and all magick you have experienced post…” He’s clearly searching for the right word, lips drawn together tightly as the seconds tick. “Loss?”

 

I feel Snow’s neck bob without even seeing it; his signature ‘Words are hard’ swallow. “None,” he eventually lets out. His foot is rattling beneath him, and he’s squeezing my hand in a counting pattern. One two three, pause, one two three, pause. “Besides the appendages. Since there’s no blood test, no nothing to trace me back to magick or any sort of family, I guess all that’s left of magick _in_ me is surface-deep.”

 

A brief moment passes, the doctor shifting the paper in front of him to align with the straight edge of the desk before clearing his throat. “While it’s only a hypothesis, it’s possible you carry magick as a dominant gene that was genetically mutated. This would leave you open to providing sperm as well, but it’s a risk that I’m unsure you’re willing to take.”

 

Snow’s eyes burn through me, but I keep mine locked to the paper on the desk. I can’t force myself to look at him, afraid of my reaction. It’s the false hope we’ve heard before; the idea that he has some sort of magick—some sort of _something_ left in him. It’s not worth hyping. “I think it’d be best to not venture down that path.” My words tumble out of my gut rather than my head, spilling out in front of us and starching the air. My eyes keep transfixed.

 

Both heads turn to me, keeping there as the buzzing lights seem to grow louder, swallowing our thoughts. I don’t dare meet either of them. I beg, I _plea_ internally that it’s dropped, that it’s left.

 

That it’s not our car ride conversation; that Snow won’t put any newfound hope into a basket and waltz it around until it shatters in his grip once again.

 

“Then we should consider how magick flows in your family,” the doctor breaks and lets me breathe again. I let my eyes drift back as Snow’s downcast to the floor in balance. “Do you know much about it?”

 

I exhale slowly, fingers drumming against Snow’s knuckles. “I know that both my mother and my aunt were powerful, but my mother was more so. I was her only child, and my father has power, but not quite as much. My step siblings are relatively strong, so I’d assume that anything I’d pass down would be of similar power.”

 

The doctor nods thoughtfully, writing it down. “You’ve already given sperm, correct?”

 

I nod, trying to swallow away the feeling that Snow’s already spiraling in silence.

 

“Good; you both signed everything, correct? As in, everything is in order, including the studies?”

 

I nod again, for the both of us this time. Crowley, Snow’s frozen. “Everything’s set on our part.”

 

Doctor Bradford glances between us swiftly before nodding curtly. “Yes, good. That should be all for now. We’ll contact you with information regarding the insemination.”

 

I skim over the niceties; the forced smile, the handshakes, the thank-you. I let them slip out of me as if I were on autopilot as I lead Snow out and into the car.

 

I take the moment to buckle him, eyes studying his face. He’s blinking. He’s there, but his body’s ahead of his mind.

 

His mind is across the trimmed grass nearby, nestling away from his consciousness. I want to spell him back. I want there to be a spell to bring him back.

 

The ride back begins as silent, then he nearly scares me half to death five minutes in with a brush of his hand against mine.

 

I pull over at the mere touch, eyes urgently flickering over my zombified husband. “Yes, love?” I urge out as calmly as possible.

 

There’s nothing more that I loathe than treating Snow like a scared animal; skittish and frozen with an over-beating heart. He’s pathetic like this; he’s the Snow who I nearly lost to a lash out and a four day bender all those years ago. The one I woke up to a phone call from at 4 am. A tired voice and a weak _“Baz? I fucked up. I fucked up,_ _I’m fucked up, I’m so scared, Baz, please. I’m—“_

 

“That sucked,” he whispers, leaving me to uncontrollably burst out into a relieved sob-laugh as a hand shoots to my mouth to cover it. My dampening eyes barely push open to watch him start to snicker, biting down onto his lip.

 

I unbuckle impulsively and launch myself at him, arms throwing around him and dragging him closer to me. “Fucking hell, Snow, you were scaring me half to death. I was nearly sure you’d go off. Oh fuck, don’t do that again, I don’t know what to do without you here with me. _Fuck_.”

 

His laughter tickles my chest, leaving me feeling all swirly and woozy inside. Fuck. Fuckfuckingfuckfuckfuckingfuck. “I was just thinking, love. I’m okay, I promise. Sure, it hurts, but I’ve figured by now that it’s really gone, and nothing they say will help that. I’m _okay_ , Baz. Sto—Baz, I’m okay.” His hands cup my jaw, wiping away the tears still streaming out. “I’m sorry, love, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

 

I cut him to a stop, pressing my face stubbornly into his neck as I cling to him, sink into him, stay with him. Lock him in, lock him close. Keep him, my _Simon_ , close. “I love you, dear, but shut up.”

 

His body shakes with a laugh, fingers shifting through my hair comfortingly. I let myself indulge in his forehead-kisses and strokes of my upper back as I find myself, and try not to get lost again.

 

I sit up, sit back. He pats my thigh, rubbing it twice before taking my hand. “Take us home, _please_. I want to not think about that meeting as much as possible before anything else happens.”

 

I bite back my lip from a full smile, swallowing what was left of a sob as my back straightens. “Agreed.” My hand releases his, shifting from park to drive. “Do you want to rent a film?”

 

“Hm, sounds like a plan. It’s my pick, though.”

 

“Oh like _hell_ I’m letting you put me through another old Bond film. It’s disgustingly heterosexual—“

 

“Fine, fine. We’re watching Kingsmen, then.”

 

I purse my lips, tapping the wheel a few times. “We’ll see about that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the way, the song mentioned at the very beginning is Soma by The Strokes; the title of this chapter is a lyric from the song


	3. I Tear Body and Soul Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe he’ll take it well. Maybe I’m overthinking again.
> 
> Or maybe I know my husband well enough to gauge his reaction based on his personality mixed with knowledge of the situation.
> 
> Fuck. I want to be wrong.
> 
> -
> 
> A phone call is all it takes to change a night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey kiddos! this is probably going to be one of the few chapters in this fic that has an alternating POV within the chapter. i'm trying to set up chapters as only one voice per chapter, but this is one of the few that i felt like it was needed. enjoy!!!

**BAZ**

 

It’s jarring to hear words spoken to you, yet having them pass through you like some fucked up deja-vu of the worst circumstances.

 

Like when my father said he’d never accept my decisions; accept  _ us _ . Despite being in front of Snow and I, his voice came through as if it was coming through a phone dropped into the bottom of a lake; distorted, empty, and somehow sounding like I’d heard it a million times. Like the voice in my head that’d been shouting it for years finally broke the surface and bared its snarling teeth and spitting words that hit me more like a dissociation daydream than an actual speech.

 

This doesn’t exactly feel like that knee-scrapes of a shitty remark. This instead feels like getting stabbed in the fucking spine.

 

“Incompatible genes,” rings in my ears, the voice calm and  _ incredibly _ pitiful, “the DNA sample pulled interesting information about your condition that we want your permission to study, but the results are a negative. The egg did not fertilize properly.”

 

I swallow at the ice-chunk in my throat, refusing to melt away. “What’s the matter with the DNA then?” I force, the hand pressing my mobile to my cheek giving a slight tremble as my bodyweight shifts.

 

Ears straining to keep focus on the tumbling of words, slowly rocking on the patio seat as my eyes transfix onto a bird pecking at our feeder. A cloud of sentences crowd around my head, closing around my throat and my shoulders.  _ “If you don’t mind us saying, Mr. Pitch, it’s truly fascinating. The cellular reproductive rate in sperm decreased almost to the point of complete standstill. It’s nearly as though their lifespans last forever, but they nearly never split overall. Although your skin and hair sampled yielded typical results, your mouth swab showed a similar decrease in splitting, suggesting you physically appear as aging, but internally your lifespan is undetermined but significantly longer-lasting.” _ It’s stuffy, like how Snow’s old smoke felt thick in your lungs. I can’t breathe.

 

I can barely speak, uttering out a confirmation to set up a visit to discuss the next steps and see where it goes from here, and yes, thank you for your time. My fingertips ghost over the end call before the other line goes dead.

 

The goldfinch across the yard seems to be having a lovely time picking at its lunch.

 

If I had the energy, I’d shoot across and drain it, but even then I’d feel more disgusted with myself than I am now.  _ I’m _ the reason we’re in this standstill, after all. My “condition”.

 

I stand swiftly, going to find the pack of cigarettes hidden in the side table drawer beside the sofa. Standing back outside with shaky hands and fumblings of my wand (I’m too incoherent and untrusted with a lighter, or even matchsticks), it takes me moments to fully light the fag hanging from my lips. I drag it, the thick smoke burning my throat before I bitterly taking the cig and holding it between my fingers, palms pressing deeply into my eye sockets. I rub, trying to shake the words out of my brain.

 

They keep floating, buzzing around me incoherently in jumbles of phrases. Each word pelts me, like little flies swarming to pick at my corpse.

 

I would never admit it verbally, but I’m more scared than anything. Scared of Snow’s reaction; scared that he’s still teetering on the edge of lost and mad.

 

It’d never cross my mind that he’d raise a fist to me, but the thought of Snow hurting himself to some extent keeps probing into my thoughts.

 

My phone rests beside me, face up on the red-stained deck and sitting without the annoyance of the string of notification buzzes others may have.

 

I don’t have much out there to care about sharing or contacting, except Snow, Bunce, and Fiona. I don’t have social media; I have four downloaded applications. A tuning app, Spotify, Skype, and a translator app that isn’t even mine, it’s Snow’s.

 

I only check emails and texts, a large majority of the latter being Snow texting me pictures of things he finds while out.

 

After unlocking it, I click through it to open the picture he sent me earlier today.

 

**Simon Snow Pitch:** bear_in_a_black_trenchcoat_shirt.jpg

 

**Simon Snow Pitch:** i think i found the shirt to get for fiona for christmas

 

A wet laugh bubbles up through my throat, eyes squeezing shut automatically to stop the tears welling up.  _ Crowley, he’s going to be so upset. _

 

It briefly runs through my mind that I could theoretically spend the evening acting oblivious to the call, but then I remember that Snow’s grown to be sharp as a witches’ wit when it comes to me avoiding anything.

 

That leaves me with the inevitable conclusion of telling him.

 

The time tells me that he won’t be home for another hour. My heart tells me that he’ll be home a half an hour late; it’s the first Saturday of the month, so he’ll stop off and pick up some flowers for me as well as some take-out.

 

It’s the first Saturday of the month. June 4 th . His birthday is in a few weeks, and he was going to save up any money he’s sent from various friends he somehow kept to buy a crib.

 

It’s the first Saturday of the month of his 25 th birthday, and I’m going to have to look him in the eyes and tell him we’re not having a baby.

 

I jam the cigarette back between my lips, taking a forceful drag as I type out a message, hitting send before setting my mobile aside.

 

**Me:** If you’re picking up dinner, may I put in my recommendation for butter chicken and garlic naan? x

 

The bird across the ways rattles at the food before taking flight, going off somewhere safer than being around me. I let the smoke out slowly, eyelids falling heavily as my chest tugs. It feels like I’m lying to him, sending some innocent text about dinner plans that fit so perfectly into our everyday life as if I didn’t just receive dream-crushing news.

 

Maybe he’ll take it well. Maybe I’m overthinking again.

 

Or maybe I know my husband well enough to gauge his reaction based on his personality mixed with knowledge of the situation.

 

_ Fuck _ . I want to be wrong.

 

For once in my life,  _ just once, _ I want to be wrong. I want Snow to walk through the door, making my knees weak as he says “I got a voicemail from the doctor about the egg and that’s a pity but I love you so it doesn’t matter!” then we’re mildly upset together, eat enough ice cream throughout the next week until we get over it enough to adopt an animal or two for emotional replacement. Then, eventually, we retire further up the countryside.

 

It could work. We’ll make it work.

 

I close my eyes, tapping the ash off as I breathe out into the early evening air.

 

Life’s a bitch.

 

I crush down the butt, gathering my phone and the cigarette box after making sure I returned my wand to my pocket and heading inside. My eyes drift to the telly to occupy my mind, but the news is depressing and mindlessly watching Normals do whatever it is they do makes me feel ridiculously lonely whenever I’m doing it without Snow.

 

I could nap, but that’d be pointless. I could read, but nothing good to—

 

My phone buzzes with an alert.

 

**Simon Snow Pitch:** will do my love  <3

 

Well, fuck.

 

**SIMON**

 

I ring for Baz’s favorite Indian shop, stepping into my car as the city noises close off around me. I toss my satchel in the back and set the flowers in the passenger seat, letting my back sink into the car seat as I rub my face. Cheerily, I greet the shop owner’s voice, confirming that yes, I would like the usual, thank you, before ending the call and letting out a long breath.

 

The car rumbles to life, music flipping back on where it left off in a thump to the beginning of “Golden Trunks” from that  _ Arctic Monkeys _ album that Baz hates to love (I tell him he likes it because he dressed like the album sounds). A smile manages to turn up the corner of my lips, despite my overall exhaustion.

 

I know that Baz doesn’t quite understand why I love my work so much if it tires me emotionally and physically, but it’s rewarding at the end.

 

It took a few years, especially after Watford, for me to fall back on track for  _ something _ . It wasn’t until my therapist asked what I would have wanted as a child, and it hit me.

 

I’d want a social worker who’d give a shit about me.

 

Then it sort of all… clicked into place (Baz calls it my Hero Complex). I went to school for my degrees, got my certification and all, and now I work with kids to get them out of the system as quickly as possible (and to weed out the shit foster houses).

 

Sure, it hurts like a fucking gut punch to see people suffer, but it feels like I’m on the moon anytime one of my cases smiles at me and gives me a hug. It reminds me that I’m at least doing something for the greater good.

 

I guess I sort of have a “hero complex”, but it’s not intentional; it’s the only thing that keeps me sane sometimes. Without the thrum of magick, I itch to do something that makes me feel at least somewhat important, and despite Baz’s best efforts to convince me that I’m important already, I still feel like a useless sack of shit too often.

 

I feel myself exhale as I pull up to the shop, dragging myself in and paying for the food with an automatic kind smile slapped across my face.

 

I wish I didn’t feel like a useless sack of shit still.

 

Maybe this baby is the breath of fresh air we both need, that  _ I _ need.

 

Fuck, it sounds like I’m saying the relationship is dead, which Merlin and Morgana I swear it isn’t, but after a life of excitement then a plateau, I feel like we won’t survive a plateau. I feel like Baz is going to get bored of me, eventually. It’s just that a change of pace would be good, and nothings more life-changing than another life.

 

That’s what it is. Changing the pace. Making me more exciting. Making sure that I’m not a sack of shit.

 

I buckle back into the car, pulling it back and heading home.  _ We’re fine. Everything’s fine. _

 

**BAZ**

 

The sun’s just starting to set as Snow’s car pulls up, gravel popping beneath it and quieting before the engine cuts. I listen to the click of the car door, Snow’s soft grunt, the rustling of plastics and the sound of a door slamming. His keys and grind against the lock before the gentle burst of the door opening fills the house, the Snow’s symphony of movements cascading down the halls. I let my book lower, eyes lifting to greet him as I push out a smile. “Hi love,” I say as he flicks on the kitchen light.

 

Before I even have a chance to fully rise, he’s in front of me, flowers in one hand as he offers the other. I take it, fingers winding around his as our lips meet briefly. “Mm. How was your day?” I query, inhaling the flowers. Pink peonies and gardenias. Interesting.

 

“Exhausting,” he replies, his voice dropping to a tired murmur that hits me so hard that it makes me swallow. He raises his head, meeting my eyes as he looks at me quizzically. “Are you alright? You went for a smoke today.”

 

I open my mouth to answer, but snap it shut a moment later. No. Nope. “Let’s eat. The food’s going to get cold.”

 

He sighs and I feel his hand press to my hip, which just makes my heart race faster.  _ Fuck. _ “Talk to me.” It’s a command, not a question, and I know it now. I’m fucked.

 

“I got a call from the doctor.”

 

His eyes flicker up and around my face, sending my heart to shatter. He fucking knows. He can tell. He’s so… he’s going to… “It didn’t work,” he mutters. It’s not for me, clearly, but I nod automatically anyway. His head drops, stepping back from me as his hand leaves my side and travels to his hair. He cards through it and grips at it, squeezing, pulling.

 

His mouth starts rapid firing in short huffs of curses, working himself up and pulling away, pulling back into himself.

 

I hear his voice crack, I see the tears leaking, but every time I reach an arm out, I open my mouth, he steps further. He gasps louder for air, shaking his head and holds his arms out for distance. I barely hear his quiet “Nonono”s through the building sobs.

 

I ache. I burn from the inside out. I watch him fucking self-destruct, and he’s begging for me to be further, to be away.

 

I just want to hold him. I just want it to stop.   
  


But he doesn’t even let me breathe in his direct as he starts huffing, face covered by his hands. My eyes transfix on his ring, shining alone from the kitchen light barely filtering in through the doorframe. It’s getting darker outside, the last of the daylight disappearing into deep purples and blues. He’s like a ghost; shades of cornflower and aegean in the dimming night, and his tears serve only to illuminate him. I grow weak, arms falling to my sides as I back away, his anger building and twisting his sadness.

 

I flinch at the sight of his reddening face, and fucking pray that he doesn’t see.

 

His eyes dart, and I see something that I’d convinced myself that only existed in dreams now; the fevered rage that The Mage held, all those years ago. The lasting flicker of the madman seeps into Snow, who’s now backing into the wall, staring at the floor and telling himself this is his fault, and I flinch even harder when I hear it happen. The crash and shatter of a picture frame, somewhere near him, clattering to the ground and bursting into glittering shards. His wings swat the air a bit, knocking another frame from the wall. The hiding spells worn thin, letting the sheer force of Snow's anger pushing the wings through the fabric of his button down.

 

I just gape, no longer feeling there, no longer believing I’m in the room. I can’t feel my body; I haven’t for ten minutes. My limbs don’t exist, and the tears falling down my cheeks are just of my mind’s tricking, but my autopilot of a brain launches my barely-existing limbs forward, descending down onto the crumpling figure of my husband. He’s curled now, curled into himself with hands yanking at his curls, sobbing even harder.

 

I expect something to happen when I touch him; for him to send me away and tell me to never come back, but instead he does what we both need and he leans into me. I feel his sputterings now, and my face presses to his, presses everywhere, trying to sop up his sadness and anger by just holding him and reminding him that I’m here, against him, by his side.

 

We sit here, pressed up to the floor and wall for what feels like hours. It’s wordless after a few minutes, the only sound being his hiccup-y breaths, which I coach him through with each open-palmed rub of his chest. He takes it; he takes it all. He takes my cheek kisses, my hair kisses, my hugs and my comfort. Everything that I hide so much from everyone else; he takes it from me and holds it close, giving me back all I need to keep sane; a look in the eyes and a broken but present smile. It’s like taking a bat to my heart, and I can’t do anything but to kiss his lips, over and over, trying to emit something from them.

 

It takes time before he lets it out, but then it tumbles in the incoherent-Snow-way that hits me in the chest. He sputters “I’m sorry”s, going in the circles of words, retracing them and begging me to stay with him, begging me to make it last.

 

I take his face in my hands, maybe a little too jarringly because he cuts his sentence and startles. I loosen, looking in him, through his eyes and his quivering lips to try to get  _ into _ him.

 

“Simon,” I breathe, ignoring the choking in my throat. “I’m never leaving you.  _ Never _ . Please, just… stop that, okay? I’m here; fucking hell, I can’t even fathom walking out that door. Child or no child, Simon, I’m here.”

 

He swallows, another tear trickling down his cheek as his hand finds mine and wipes away the wetness. I watch his soft inhale, eyes closing as my forehead presses to his. “I’m gonna fix this,” he mumbles, voice barely leaving our bubble. “I’m gonna figure out a way to get it to work.” I want to tell him to stop, and that I don’t need anything from him but him, but it seeps into me as his arms snake around my waist that this clearly isn’t for me anymore; it’s for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's act like I don't nearly forget that Simon has wings halfway through every chapter, shall we?
> 
> chapter title is a lyric from "It's A" by McCafferty


	4. Devil on My Shoulder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little part of me urges me to grab my phone and search there. The little devil on my shoulder, muttering that it’s needed, that it’ll fix everything. I’ll finally be permanently happy if I figure this out, because the answer to everything is change.
> 
> -
> 
> Simon's in a spiral and the only direction is down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i somehow got two chapters out this week wow! this one's quite short, but it's going to be a good transition for the next chapter, so enjoy!

**SIMON**

It’s about 4 am.

  
  
My eyes are heavy, and my mind is racing.

  
  
Each book I read, each page I flip through have the same answers; the same disappointments. Online forums, closed off groups that’ve granted me access. Nobody knows fuck-all about vampire pregnancy or reproduction.

  
  
The bed besides me dips slightly, and I feel Baz’s face plant into my thigh. At first, I’m convinced he’s still asleep as I clack at my keyboard, but a slow hand sneaks across my thigh and flattens out against it, squeezing around my muscles before letting go.

  
  
My hand drops down, stroking his silky strands mindlessly as I scroll, and scroll, and scroll and scroll and—

  
  
“What time is it?” Baz’s breath is warm against the cotton of my boxers, evenly spreading against the small patch of my skin beneath.

  
  
“4:06,” I whisper out into the air, not being bothered to look at him as my eyes skip around the next paragraph I’ve found, trying to find the keywords; the only words my mind will focus on. Fertilization, pregnancy, anything that’ll fit.

  
  
The hand travels around, looping and tugging my leg closer. He throws himself around it, huffing a little. “Have you slept?”

  
  
“No.”

  
  
I feel his head lift, shoulder propping up. I still don’t look over, not until Baz reaches up and closes the laptop as I’m skirting around a sentence about 1500s vampire reports. My mouth flies open to protest, but I’m stopped by the gentle brush of his hand against my chest. I finally meet his eyes, causing my breath to catch in my throat. He’s concerned, staring at me like I’ve just told him about some violent impulsive thought (the kind that I haven’t had in years).

  
  
I’m staring back as if it were nothing.

  
  
“Love, you have to sleep, or at least lay down. It’s the internet, dear, the websites will be there in the morning. It won’t just disappear.”

  
  
My head shakes, my throat still caught up in the words being shoved down deeper. “I have the energy now.” I’m making us okay.

  
  
His hand swipes under my left eye, the pads of his fingers dragging so slowly that my eyelashes brush against them. I can’t help but watch his face, watch the flicker of his eyes and the slight sloping downturn of his lips. I want to kiss that away.

  
  
I remind myself that I can, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his lips. He reciprocates, but doesn’t carry it on, pulling us apart as his hand still lays adamantly on my skin. “You’ve got dark circles. You’ve barely been sleeping for the past week and a half, love. Please, just lay down for a minute? Just for me?”

  
  
I sit with the laptop still perched on my lap, motor flying at a million turns a second as my eyes lock with his. I want to be a stubborn arse like he usually is, but something in me tells me not to be bitter and to just let go.

  
  
It takes me a second, but I set the computer aside and push underneath the covers as I find his eyes again. They’re locked on my figure, locked on the way my shoulders hunch and eyes still struggle to keep open. I can see the heartbreak, but I can’t stop it. I want to scream. I want to scream and shout and let go like I used to, but I can’t. Not just because that chaotic mass of energy is just gone, but because I’m an adult now, and adults don’t throw temper-tantrums; they drink, they find some sort of escapism, and they internalize their issues until another one appears to take up their focus.

  
  
Well, not healthy adults, but when have I ever made the right decision?

  
  
Once. And he’s wearing a ring to prove for it.

  
  
I feel the brush of his face against my neck, the soft inhale as his arms travel and loop around me. I exhale.

  
  
“Thank you,” he mumbles against me, into me.

  
  
I shrug, unsure of what else to say. I know I won’t sleep, like every other night, but the gentle rise and fall of his back and the carefully repetitive rubbing of his hand against the lower spot of my back makes sure that I’m at least not awake just to spiral further into the researching binge I’ve been forcing myself into.

  
  
I sink into him, eyes shut and listening to his gentle breathing as my mind races. Something builds inside of me, something I’m afraid to ask.

  
  
It’s an honestly awful question. Something that might hurt more than I want it to, but it’s a question to be asked nonetheless.

  
  
My mind thinks through ways to word it, all before realizing that I’m not even sure he’s awake.

  
  
I test in, brushing the hair Baz’s forehead and laying my lips there. He stirs, blinking carefully at me. “Yes, dear?”

  
  
Shit. Too late now. “I’ve got a question.”

  
  
He shifts against me and I feel his exhale slow and steady as his body hoists up. “Mm. Go for it.”

  
  
I shift, chewing on my bottom lip as I scratch my head. Shit. “What… what if we find a magickal sperm donor?”

  
  
His eyes open more, widening slightly before fluttering back shut with a soft groan. “I… is that what you want?” he mumbles, voice a grumbling mixture of tiredness and what seems like defeat, which hurts me a little more than I thought it would.

  
  
“I don’t want that, Baz, but what other choices do we have?”

  
  
I watch him lay back flat against the bed, eyes closed and arms sprawling. Hesitantly, I take the opportunity to roll on top of him. He smiles, but only halfheartedly. “We could always try again with mine. Said it was improbable, not impossible.”

  
  
I stare, pursed lips and bloodshot eyes. “I…”

  
  
“What you really need, though, is to stop thinking about this,” he cuts in, arms draping across my lower back and locking me closer, “and to sleep.”

  
  
“I can’t.”

  
  
“Try harder.”

 

I huff and reluctantly press my head to Baz’s chest. His hand explores up my back, pushing away my t-shirt as he continues. “’S not something we need to rush into, is it? ‘S not like someone’s pushed a gun to our heads ‘n told us to go procure a magickal child of our own. It’s no rush.”

  
  
The words clog in my throat, staying unsurfaced. What if I feel like there is? What if I feel like I disappoint you more and more each day? “I guess.”

  
  
He nods slightly, carding a hand through my hair. “Hm. Now sleep?” he whispers, already sounding like he’s halfway there himself.

  
  
“I’ll try.”

  
  
“Mm. That’s my husband,” he assures, a half very sleepily patting my back before he slips back into unconsciousness, head fallen aside and hair splayed across the silk pillows he says he requires.

  
  
A little part of me urges me to grab my phone and search there. The little devil on my shoulder, muttering that it’s needed, that it’ll fix everything. I’ll finally be permanently happy if I figure this out, because the answer to everything is change.

  
  
_ “C’mon,”  _ it begs,  _ “you know there’s got to be a lead somewhere, an answer on some website or forum. It’s out there, it’s waiting for you. Just grab and scroll, just look harder. Read more, ask more, don’t stop. It’s out there. It’s waiting, Simon, it’s waiting.” _

 

My angel isn’t quite as pushy, which is probably why all my snap-decisions exist.

  
  
_ “Don’t do it, Simon,” _ it chimes,  _ “you need to take a break. Baz isn’t in any rush, and the relationship is fine. You’re happy, you get to go out on holidays without worrying about anyone but each other, every outing together isn’t a big event; it’s comfortable. It’s happy. Don’t destroy yourself trying to change what works.” _

  
  
I glance at my phone, hand tightening into a fist before releasing.  _ Merlin, _ I think as I reach for it,  _ I wish I could listen to reason. _   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title comes from the song "Using" by Sorority Noise (the song wasn't exactly an influence for the chapter, but rather the line was the first thing that popped in my head in reference to the chapter's contents so ay. chapter title.)
> 
> there's some big boy angst for the next chapter, kids, so hold on tight.


	5. Isn't This Silly & Aren't You Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I open my mouth before pausing, trying to urge the words out as gently and deliberately as I can. My hand reaches forward, but his head shakes. I drop it. “They’re not your burden. It’s our life, not your lone drama.” It’s too late. Even in as soft of a tone as I can muster, Snow’s still glaring at me.
> 
> -
> 
> Everyone reaches their breaking point at times, even Baz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title comes from "Tsunami" by Told Slant (link to the song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RyyIyUD7PDA); the vibe fit the song quite well, and the line just kinda... stuck to me in relation to this chapter, so feel free to give it a listen!

**BAZ**

 

My fingers grip tighter around the fistfuls of my hair, breath coming out in unsteady, long exhales.  _ Don’t yell at him. It’s not worth a fight. _ “Simon?”  _ You know better than this, Basilton. _ “Can you come in here for a moment?”  _ Stop. He’s not in a good place, and you’re not either. Just cover it or clean it and leave it be. _

 

The soft thumps of his feet grow until Snow’s standing at the doorway, shirtless and in sweats and holding that  _ bloody _ vampire book in his hand and phone in the other. He gives me a once over, not looking remotely concerned. “Yeah?” he sighs, tucking the book under his arm and rubbing his eyes. Dark, heavy bags. His voice is barely a croak; he won’t even bother to sleep. Won’t even bother to really talk to me.

 

“What is  _ this? _ ”

 

He looks bored, glancing down. “The  _ water-ring _ on the table?”

 

“You just left shit out. Didn’t fucking clean, didn’t do shit, Snow,  _ Crowley,  _ will you fucking  _ clean after yourself? _ ” I spit out, feeling my hands tremble as palms lay flush against the table. Cautiously, I raise my gaze up to Snow’s, which is locked on mine as he stares at me incredulously.

 

“It’s one thing, Baz. Calm down.”

 

“No.  _ No. _ It’s not  _ one _ thing, Simon, it’s everything here and there throughout the whole house. You’re a  _ slob _ ! You’re not even taking care of yourself.” I snap, crossing my arms a tad aggressively across my chest as my eyes stare daggers not his. His head drops, chest deflating with a huff as he sets his  _ cursed _ book and phone on the table next to the hideous water ring he’d left and the disheartening personality shift that’s gone with it.

 

“Fuck off, Baz. I’ve been busy,” he grumbles, barely even putting the slightest of effort to properly retaliate; to make it feel like a proper argument with the Simon I know. The Simon who would at least snap at me, then cry because he hadn’t meant to.

 

No. This Simon’s been stuffed away, reading everything he can get his hands on. He’s stopped eating with me, he’s stopped acknowledging my presence when we’re even sitting together; I have to take his hand and kiss it to snap him away, and only then for the briefest of moments.

 

This is worse than post-uni. Fuck-all worse. Back then he at least seemed to want to be near me when he caved, but now he’s running off to the bathroom and locking himself up while reading article after article that are all telling him the same thing. It’s not going to work.  _ It’s not going to work. _

 

“It’s not going to work!” I let it slip, breath hitching as I glare down and square my shoulders. Something in me snaps, surging through my mind as Snow just… stands there. “Look at me, Simon,  _ look up at me Merlin and fucking Morgana! _ What are you thinking?”

 

I watch as he shifts, weight moving from foot to foot as his eyes stay downcasted. “It isn’t worth arguing, Baz. Just fuck off.”

 

“No,” I spout in an bitter, barking laugh, rolling up onto the balls of my feet. “No, it is worth arguing if it’ll snap you out of this  _ funk _ you’ve driven yourself into. Not until you start acting normal for once.”

 

His head lifts up and his gaze raises up to mine, a scowl spread across his face. “ _ Fuck. Off. _ ”

 

“No. Nope,” I pop the  _ p _ for effect, “I’m not going to. We’re married now, remember? Your problems are my problems.”

 

“And this is  _ our _ problem, but it’s mine to deal with!” He shouts back, stepping backwards towards the doorway. A hand reaches out and steadies him on a chair, dragging it in the slightest across the hardwood in a screech.

 

The grandfather clock in the corner ticks softly, counting off the seconds that Snow and I stay locked in a staring standstill. I count along with them, watching Snow’s range of emotions roll through his expressions. He seems to land on angry and somehow, it hits me harder than it should. He would’ve gone off here, if he still had magick. He can feel it to; the air still doesn’t spark when he’s at a rolling boil.

 

I open my mouth before pausing, trying to urge the words out as gently and deliberately as I can. My hand reaches forward, but his head shakes. I drop it. “They’re not your burden. It’s our life, not your lone drama.” It’s too late. Even in as soft of a tone as I can muster, Snow’s still glaring at me.

 

“Oh, don’t you say that,” he growls back, fist closing around the head of the chair. “Fucking hell, Baz, it isn’t like that. I’m trying to figure it out for us, aren’t I? It’s that what this baby’s for; us?”

 

I can’t help but let out a bitter laugh, chest pulling in as his face contorts further into a scowl. “Is it? Is it really, Simon? And how are  _ we _ right now?” Snow’s head lifts, mouth gaping up and down but letting out soundless spats. I’m an absolutely dick, because I just laugh again and cross my chest more, letting myself away from him more and more. “Yes. Right. Thought so, because I haven’t gotten dick in weeks, Snow,  _ weeks _ have gone by and you’ve barely touched me. You’re a fucking brick wall, and every time I try to get you to even kiss me, you act like it’s a chore. A  _ chore _ . I’m so fucking tired of this, Simon, of all of what’s been happening since they told us that it  _ won’t work _ . Guess what, Simon! It really won’t work! They already told us that. Just give up on this  _ heroic _ quest to try to save the day again and we’ll fucking move on with our lives like we had it before.”

 

He blinks and for a split second, I’m convinced that maybe it got through to him, that he’ll look at me and apologize for everything that he’s been doing. That everything has just been him dealing with the grief. That he’s sorry for ignoring me and ignoring that we had a life before we even realized we wanted a kid.

 

That this is bullshit, and we can be happy without that.

 

But I’ll be damned, he doesn’t. His face warps into a bitter glare as he steps closer and eggs me forward. “Really?” He snaps, voice growing tougher. “ _ Really? _ I work tirelessly, day and night, to get us something we care about and you think I’m wasting it? You’re tired, Baz? I’m tired too. I’m fucking exhausted, but it doesn’t matter because I’m doing this for  _ us _ .”

 

“I didn’t ask you to run yourself half to death. I didn’t ask for any of this. All I ever asked for was you, Simon. Not running around and trying to have a kid that I could give two fucks if we do end up having one or not!”

 

“What, do you not want a kid anymore? Is that it?”

 

“I want my husband back,” I hiss coldly as he stalks into my space, chest tightening into a tight ball as my eyes prick. I stumble backwards, getting away from his edging words. I’m dizzy. “I want my husband instead of this. You’re not you, Simon, and you won’t snap out of it.”

 

I pleadingly look at him, watching him swim in my blurring direct vision as he looks at me with such disgust that I might as well have told him that our relationship is a joke. “You’re a selfish prick,” he spits quietly. “This is about you, isn’t it?”

 

My head shakes faster than I can control it, eyes squeezing to keep it all back. “That’s fucking rich,” I let out the rest of my thought, trying to recollect myself. “I don’t… I can’t deal with this anymore. I can’t… I can’t…”

 

“Then what, Baz? Are you going to fucking leave?” His words come through me as if it was an old recording; unreal, staticed and hitting me in waves. “Because the door is over there. Go on and live without having to deal with me anymore.”

 

I choke out an unusual noise, fist tightly pressed to my lips. “Don’t… I didn’t mean it like that…” utter, but my cracked eyes follow his shaking, unkempt curls. It strikes a chord in me. It hurts me more than it should. “Fine. I’m gone,” I murmur, throat caught as I push past him, into the hallway. I just grab a coat and throw on boots, grabbing the keys and throwing open the door with an audible wind gush.

 

My hand reaching for the glass door handle levitates over it for a fleeting moment, waiting for any sort of discernible hint that Snow might try to stop me, but it’s dead silent.

 

I push out the door, the splitting wind feeling glass shards into my cheeks. It nearly freezes the long streaks left by the stray tears trickling down my cheeks.

 

The car’s cold. I start it, taking a few tries before the blowing wind hits me. It’s freezing.

 

I slam it off, trying to fixate on the humming engine as I sink deeper into the leather cushioning and mutter to myself every word that was said, flitting around and occupying my every thought.

 

It starts as a few tears and the flutter of my chest, but it only takes moments to build into sobs, my forehead pressing against the steering wheel. Every sob hits harder, breath spasming each time.

 

His face flickers across my brain, but it doesn’t rest; its sinks down into the inky pond where all my thoughts float by my body. I’m tied to a cement brick, or maybe I’m the cement brick and Snow’s my victim.

 

I let myself sink into the muck, fingers numbed by the cold and body shivering at every huff. Every time I think it’s slowed, my body sputters and starts up again, head raising and slapping back against the headrest.

 

The sky lets it out, too; a gentle flurry starts up, then picks up into a steady snowfall. I cut the car, trying to ground my mind further with each huff.

 

Maybe I’m a fucking child, and hell, Snow has enough of me, but I need to help him. I have to do something to stop this someway.

 

The car softly beeps at me, the door swinging open and being cut by my yanking of the keys.

 

The snow dusts my hair, resting on my shoulders and blanketing me as I stand outside of the car. It takes me moments to take myself back in, toeing off my shoes and hanging my jacket. The house is pitch-dark, illuminated by drawn curtains and soft moonlight filling the rooms and shadowing each piece of furniture.

 

The bedroom door is left open a crack, but I don’t hear the loud, steady sound of Snow’s sleeping.

 

He’s laying there, back to the door, but his breathing is clearly not steady enough for him to be asleep.

 

Part of me wants to be as self-deprecating as I used to be and just say he’s up because he’s trying to deal with his anger, but the realistic part of me is telling me that he’s up waiting for me to come back to bed. The way his head turns a little, curls falling towards the pillow as I see him look over in my direction, it makes me feel a little warm inside. Confirms the latter.

 

I undress to my undershirt and briefs, slipping in behind him. He doesn’t move closer, but doesn’t press away either. I’ll take that. I’ll take anything but rejection.

 

I look at his hand, resting on his hip so innocently that it feels intentional.

 

I take it, curling mine around his and kissing his hair. He exhales against me. “I’m sorry,” I mumble into the back of his head, eyes shut. It takes a few beats before he gives any resemblance of a response, but his hand turns and presses against mine, interlocking our fingers together. Now it’s my turn to exhale. “I’ll… I’ll phone for some specialists in the morning. We’ll find a way to make it work.”

 

A gentle shuffling leads his back away from me, but he doesn’t leave the space, instead simply turning to face me. His eyes lock onto mine, taking a few seconds before briefly nodding and pressing his face into my chest. Every part of me relaxes, hand losing grip on his before my forearms find their way over Snow’s shoulders and lead him closer against me. We exhale this time together, staying like that until sunlight starts filtering to the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry for so much angst i swear next chapter will be so much better (it's probably one of my favorite chapters tbh???) and it'll be from Fiona's POV so!!! i hope to post that update soon!


	6. Evolution Killed It All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even then, a few hours of silence didn’t prepare me for a 1 am cup of water I walked into the kitchen for, only to find Simon downing a glass of whiskey (from my cheapest bottle; how considerate).
> 
> -
> 
> Family isn't quite generations of blood coming together with swarms of people. Family, sometimes, is an aunt, her nephew, and his husband getting piss-drunk over Christmas. In fact, family's rarely ever just flesh and blood; it's usually who you accept and love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song title from the lyrics of "Jaded" by Green Day !

**FIONA**

 

Suppose I’d say The Chosen One’s grown on me over the years. It’d be a lie if I said I wouldn’t give the world for this little shit. The way Baz looks at him? Forget it. There’s no fuckin’ way I could hold anything against him in the long-run (especially after he offed The Mage; got good marks in my books after that).

 

When Baz asked me to be his ‘Best Aunt’ for their wedding, I nearly shed a tear for them. Nearly. Sure, I just gave a hearty thumbs up, but it was the best I could do without spilling tears over shit that fucked me more than it should’ve. Felt fucked to have me as the only viable family there, although, granted, most of the wedding party was the Bunce family.

 

But I’m honored to be their only “real” family. It makes the holidays wicked; one year, I beat out Simon in shots (although, it was by default. You lose if you break my fucking coffee table.) They’ve become the kids I never made the effort in raising, but with all the perks of somebody to complain to while they bring you fancy shit at Christmas.

 

Although, today was vastly different than the past few years. Not to say it wasn’t cheerful at times, but it wasn’t exactly what I'd consider ‘festive’.

 

Sure, I know about the fight and the whole baby thing, whatever the fuck’s going on there.

 

I know too well that trying is probably going to get them nowhere, but hell, they wouldn’t want to hear it. After all, I didn’t have the heart to break it to them during their dinner discussion tonight.

 

Or their after-dinner discussion.

 

Or their discussion during Die Hard.

 

Where I’m getting at it is I got tired of them talking and told them to go to bed because we had to prep for all the Chinese takeout we’d eat the next day while getting shitfaced with spiked eggnog.

 

Even then, a few hours of silence didn’t prepare me for a 1 am cup of water I walked into the kitchen for, only to find Simon downing a glass of whiskey (from my cheapest bottle; how considerate).

 

“Oi,” I mutter, smirking in the slightest as my eyebrow quirks up. “Pace yourself; don’t wanna puke in the sink again, do you?”

 

His eyes flicker up to mine as he sighs and lowers them again, reaching for the bottle despite my commentary. He pours it slowly; it’s a good mouthful worth. “Sorry,” he whispers pathetically, rubbing his face as he continues, “I just… dunno. Couldn’t sleep, didn’t want to feel anymore.”

 

“Huh. Couldn’t tell,” I quip, dragging out a seat and across from him. I grab my pack off the table, hitting it against my palm before taking out a fag and holding it carefully between my lips as I use my wand to light it. Simon keeps his eyes down.

 

“Do you know anything about this… vampire baby shit? How it works?” he asks after moments of deafening silence.

 

Didn't expect him to braven up and ask me already. Doesn’t shock me, though. Figured he’d let it eat him alive for a day or two before breaking. Stubborn one, this kid. “Do  _ you _ wanna know?”

 

He pauses. “I…” he trails, staring into the brownish liquid in my obviously pristine plastic cup that was half melted in the dishwasher a year or so back. “Yes. Yeah, I do. At least, I think so.”

 

It takes a moment, as I drag in my cigarette before exhaling and sighing. He comes off confident enough vocally, but he doesn’t seem it at a glance. Kid looks looks scared to hell. “I know how hard you two have been trying, but I’ve never seen it happen, kiddo.” I take another drag, watching him squirm in his seat. He downs the whiskey with a scrunched nose and sharp exhale following. I let him have that moment in peace. “It doesn’t seem to happen much in nature. Hell, doesn’t seem to happen much at all. They’re their own breed of creatures, and a diminishing one at that. If anything is to happen, it’s a bloody miracle. Crowley, the whole vampire-Mage combination is unheard of unless they were turned, and I wonder if it’s like that for a reason.”

 

His face doesn’t really drop, but it falters in the slightest. He reacts with just a solemn nod before he pours himself another gulp, which just makes me chuckle. “Pass me the bottle? You two are depressing  _ me _ .”

 

I receive a half-hearted smile as he passes it over, to which I just unscrew the cap and take a hearty swig, letting it burn my insides before coughing a little. “Shit’s not the best, kid.”

 

“It gets the job done,” Simon mumbles, voice barely breaking over the nightlife downstairs. A hand of his raises, scratching his chest before dropping back to his sides.

 

It’s sort of haunting to watch him; his wings fold over his shoulders in a matching hunch, shadowing over his body. He looks like a corpse. Maybe he is a corpse, beyond the magick-drained flesh and blood.

 

“It might get the job done,” I let out, pulling myself to my feet as I slowly let in another drag, letting it blow through my nose in an exhale. “But I have better shit for the holidays.”

 

There’s a pause before he chuckles, shrugging. “Yeah, sure. Sounds good.”

 

The gentle sound of clinking bottles fills the air as I grab the nice shit I have post-its on just saying “FOR FESTIVE FIONA”. I set it between us after pulling off the top and having a nice mouthful, shaking my head a bit and coughing. “Fuck. Alright, nice.”

 

Snow reaches for it after me, filling a cup as if he’s some proper shit (probably something Baz has scolded him for; he gets on me about it too sometimes, but then I call him Little Squirt or just Dumb-ass and he shuts up). Before taking an extended sip, he stares down into it, seeming to contemplate something.

 

He scoffs out a soft groan after, sinking deeper into his seat. Something in me smiles, watching him. Gets me to brave a shot at making him smile. “I can try and steal a magick baby for ya. I’m a quick little fucker; they’ll never see me comin’. Just nick it outta the NICU before they even notice.” It makes me feel a little lighter when he laughs, like the room just lost 20kg. “Hell, I’ll steal a wand while I’m at it.”

 

Snow keeps laughing, curling over into himself a bit as he wobbles to the side, throwing me half off to thinking he’ll lean right out of my chair and break the damn thing. I finish my cigarette, watching him.

 

He doesn’t though, catching himself on the table. “I think we’re fine, but I’ll keep the offer in mind,” he giggles, pulling himself back up shakily. His curls shake a bit when he laughs, bouncing with his head.

 

It dies down, and he’s awfully quiet again, lip pulled inward to his mouth as he thinks. I give him a nudge with my foot, gently kicking his shin. “Oi, kid, talk to me. What’s on your mind?”

 

He lolls his head back a little, shrugging his shoulders up as his arms wrap comfortingly around his middle. He sighs, chest deflating slowly. “Dunno. Some shit.”

 

“And I’ve got all night,” I say gently, lips upturning. Don’t know if it’s comforting or not, but he gives me a smile back.

 

“‘S silly ‘n not a big deal. Just… me being stupid, that’s all. My therapist says this is just that part of my brain that  _ doesn’t _ like me talkin’. Saying shit I don’t wanna hear but think I deserve.” He shifts his body more upright, trying to hold himself more properly now. His slump doesn’t help much. “I’m just… pathetic.”

 

I scoff, knitting my eyebrows together as I eye him. The kid’s anything but pathetic. “You do shit with your life,” I say as gently as manageable. He needs a parent right now, and I’ve never been the best alternative for one, but hell, I’ll give it a shot. “Don’t ya? Baz loves you to death, you’re working a good samaritan job that  _ helps _ people, Merlin, you saved the magickal world, didn’t you?” He just shrugs. “Look, what’s makin’ you think that?”

 

“I can’t… give Baz what he deserves.”

 

I cock a brow at him, and I watch the corner of his mouth upturn. I still blink. “What?”

 

He shakes away whatever’s on his mind, a hand lifting and scrubbing his face. “He deserves a usual, mage’s life. He didn’t deserve a broken husband. He… keeps staying, he comes back to me, and he doesn’t deserve the shit I give him.” A broke chuckle slips through, hand covering his face from the glaring kitchen light. “Fuck. He deserves the world, and I’m his biggest mistake.”

 

I can’t help but laugh. Crowley knows it’s the worst reaction, but I grab the bottle, laugh, and take the biggest chug I can manage before practically slamming it back down. “Merlin, Simon, do you know how much that isn’t true?”

 

I can barely see his wringing hands, and I have no clue wherever he’s looking, but the kid looks overwhelmed. “But… I…”

 

“No, no he loves you. More than the whole goddamn world. Fucking Merlin and Morgana, Baz sees you as everything. Do you know how many nights he’d stay up and tell me it’d be you or nothing after you got together? Too many. The boy loves you more than the ground loves dirt.”

 

Snow shifts a little in his seat. “But… he…”

 

“Look,” I mumble, swaying forward in my seat. “You’re his world. I know it sounds like nothing, but I’m basically the only other person he talks to, so you gotta listen to me. He fucking loves you.”

 

He swallows, loud enough for me to hear, before nodding. “Thank you,” he lets out.

 

I nod, resting my elbows on the table and crossing my arms in the slightest. “Mmmhm. And I’m gonna give you some advice, and I think you should really listen if you actually wanna be fucking happy.” The way he nods makes me feel like a wise-man, so I let it fuel me to continue. “Kids aren’t everything. Sure, they seem great, but they’re the biggest fuckin’ stress you’ll ever see. They’re loud, they’re messy, they fuck with your shit and don’t say sorry. They’re a pain in the arse and you can’t just toss ‘em aside afterwards. There’s a reason I never had one of my own, especially after helpin’ out with Baz here and there. It’s too much stress, and look at you. You’re stressed, and you don’t even got one yet.”

 

“Don’t rush into something when the world isn’t giving you what you want immediately. You guys ready for a baby? The world might give you a little sack of shit. Until then, don’t wear yourself out over something you can’t control. If you wanna try, then try. If not, just tell him that you love him and some other sweet shit, and you’ll both be fine without it. Okay?”

 

He sort of stares at me and I think I get what Basil means when he says he can feel the kid thinking. It shows on his face; he narrows his eyebrows in and mulls over every word like it's some prophecy to follow for the rest of his life. Makes me feel like my words fucking matter, which feels sort of nice. “I… uh… yeah. Fuck. I, uh, I needed to hear that,” he mumbles under his breath, hands running back over his face a few times. “Fuck. Thank you.”

 

I smile slightly, tipping my head up for a nod. “Promise me somethin’, alright?”

 

“Mhm?”

 

“Give it up soon, if it doesn’t just happen.”

 

He pauses, leaned back in the seat as his head tilts up. He stares at the popcorned ceiling, chewing on his lip. He breaks the silence after minutes. “Okay,” he gives in, hands coming to his face to rub. “Yeah… I’m… we… yeah. I’ll talk to him. We’ll talk about that.”

 

I exhale slowly, smiling as my head rests on the table. “Alright. Mhm. Now, go to bed, kid. We’ve got festivities in the morning.”

 

“Are those festivities more drinking?”

 

I click my tongue, aiming finger guns at him halfheartedly. “You’ve got it.”

 

He chuckles lightly, body hauling up and stumbling out of the seat. I’d offer him help, but I don’t have the energy in me. We mumble goodnights, and he heads off to his bedroom.

 

I smile a little to myself. They’ll be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> felt like after last chapter, we needed something new and freshing to the fic but like also i'm super gay for fiona so she needed her own chapter written in her PoV. i hope i did her justice
> 
> also! this is not the last time we're getting her in this fic! she's planned in for a later chapter in here !!!


	7. The Comedown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I open my mouth slightly, considering a protest out of nature, but he shuts me up with a kiss to the cheek. I take it gratefully. “I love you,” He insists, taking my hands. “Just shut up. You’ll keep saying stupid shit and I’ll keep telling you. I love you, and I’m happy. We can get a dog, fuck, plenty of dogs. We’ll do something with our life that doesn’t require kids, we’ll go on bloody holidays and shit. Want to see Iceland? Never been there, might be a good trip. We don’t have to mope for more than a day or two, okay? Just don’t ride it out.”
> 
> -
> 
> Sometimes you just have to accept fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof ouch owie i'm sorry for the delay on this chapter i'm just awfully busy but if you want to yell at me on tumblr anytime i'm not updating my @ is @neck-mole i'm sorry
> 
> also i didn't use any fancy lyric for this title because i couldn't think of one

**SIMON**

 

My hold on Baz’s arm tightens slightly, all the feeling draining from my limbs as he nods, phone to his ear. Each second that passes, dragging on with for an eternity, fill me with a concoction of fear, doubt, and anxieties. It’s intoxicating.

 

We tried again. Or, really, we took one last shot. After the talk with Fiona, after the longest dragging Christmas I’ve been through in years, we sat down and made a game plan. A decision for our future.

 

Fiona, was right after all. It is too stressful to run myself into the mud trying to make all this work. And what she says about Baz isn’t wrong, I hope. He says he loves me no matter what, and while I believe him, some arsehole part in the back of my head is telling me he’ll still find a way to leave me. I’ve been trying to ignore those thoughts, though. If I love him, and he says he loves me, then that’s enough to push us through this.

 

So we sat at our breakfast bar one day around New Years, hand-in-hand, and looked through our options, both financially and realistically. Those two collided to give us our plan: one more shot. One more go, with a new donor egg, and see if it’ll work this time. It put a little dent in our savings, but it’s worth giving up our holiday trip to France this summer to try just one more time.

 

If nothing comes of it, then we agreed to stop trying. This whole baby thing will be cut. It’s not worth tearing us (or, really, me) apart for something that isn’t a necessity. We’ll continue on; we’ll get a pet or two, maybe. We’ll look into saving for a summer house, maybe up North. Baz said he’d consider the job offer he got from Headmaster Bunce, and I said I’d consider us moving closer to campus if he takes it. Hell, we could take Ebb’s old barn and renovate it. Baz may have semi-shot down that last idea, but pestering him about it enough might change his mind despite the fact that he swears we’ll never be able to get rid of the goat smell.

 

As much as it’d feel odd to be around constant magick, it seems somewhat worth it. Headmaster Bunce even said I could teach a Magickal History course on the war if I really wanted to, but I said I’d rather not speak to a class. That’d be a bit much for me, even now. If anything, I’d just tend the goats, like Ebb did. They’re still there, taken care of by the Creatures Care elective kids. I heard there’s even a little plaque by the fences, reading “Ebeneza Petty: Sister, Daughter, Friend, and Powerful Martyr”. I don’t quite agree with the end; she wasn’t a martyr, she was fucking hero. She saved Agatha, and that’s enough in my book. That’s more than I did.

 

Maybe that’s why I miss Watford more than I’d like to admit; it’s the last bit of Ebb left over. Sure, we get holiday cards from her family (they feel sorry for me), but that isn’t nearly enough. It fucks me up.

 

Maybe if we have a daughter, we’ll give her the middle name Ebb. She deserves to live on that way, at least. 

 

Although, as we stand here with Baz’s phone pressed to the side of his head and as he lets out a tight lipped sigh, it hits me that that’s probably not going to be the case.

 

“Yes, yes. Thank you, doctor. Have a nice night,” He mutters as my arm tightens around his bicep. The only sound in the whole house is the clicking of his phone following the end call. I inhale, lip trembling in the slightest. Fuck. That’s it.

 

I hear Baz clear his throat before I feel his fingers thread through my hair and comb it away from my forehead, making way for the press of his lips. “Do you want me to say it?” He asks, each word a drawn whisper barely breaking the surface. I shake my head in the slightest.

 

“No,” I mumble, voice cracking. The grip I’ve got on his arm only constricts, tugging him closer. The leather of the couch groans under us as Baz shifts us together, drawing my legs to his lap and curling me up onto him. He’s usually so good with words, but when it comes to comfort, he’s got the verbal capabilities of a merwolf. I don’t quite mind, though; at least he stays through the silence.

 

I’m not sure when it started exactly, but a steady stream of tears trickle down my cheeks. I turn my head towards my husband’s shoulder, letting them soak into his shirt. He says nothing, hand carefully running up and down my spine.

 

It’s not loud. There’s no sobs of anguish or pleads of turning back time to get what I want rather than what we got. It isn’t a whole number, a dramatic show where I do a number about how nothing seems to work out for me.

 

It’s just me, a grown man, sitting on my husband’s lap and crying into his shirt. I’m not a headline; I’m just a person. An upset, tired person.

 

A person who’s holding onto Baz’s shirt, trying to press closer as a whine escapes my throat. “This isn’t fair,” I utter, because it damn well isn’t. If there was anything that’d just be nice if it could happen, it’d be the universe granting me a family. I got my magick taken away, and just I want to bring magick back into the world. See our kids’ first steps into Watford, see them grow up in a world that I wanted for myself.

 

That’s not going to happen, though.

 

“I know, my love. I know it isn’t,” he says back, voice as gentle as a feather. His hand moves slowly, stroking up and down the bending of my back. “It isn’t fair, but it’s life.”

 

I pout into him, merely because I can and it feels relatively justified right now, and it still fucking hurts. “Tell me we’ll be okay,” I breathe, because that’s all that’s on my mind. The worries that something won’t be, that it’ll fuck this up somehow. That this,  _ somehow _ , will single-handedly fuck up the most important thing in my life currently; my relationship with my husband.

 

But he melts that away, lips grazing my forehead once more, before tipping up my chin and kissing my lips. I’m disgusting, but he does it anyway.

 

That’s how I know that he’s not going anywhere.

 

“We’ll be fine. We always are in the end.” He’s right. We are. Even after the worst times, he still comes home to me and I come home to him.

 

I stare up at him before nodding, shutting my eyes again and lowering my head to his shoulder, digging my nose into the crook of his neck. HIs cool skin feels good against the warmth of my cheeks.

 

I feel him hum, barely focusing on the sound but fixating on the feeling, his hand pulling me closer as he tries to calm me.

 

It works enough to make my tears stop, at least.

 

“S’enough, Baz,” I mumble, wiping away what’s streaked down my face with the sleeve of my jumper. “You don’t have to coddle me.”

 

He laughs anyway, keeping his arm locked around my frame. “I signed up for this, didn’t I? Said my vows and everything. Through thick and thin, Snow, through better or worse.” His grip loosens as I sit up and away a little, but keeps on me. His smile presses through, just past the corners of his lips. It’s genuine, which hurts me a bit more than I’d like to admit. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve him being a softie to just me.

 

“Tell me you love me,” I utter, hands cupping his cheeks and thumbs circling them.

 

He closes his eyes, tongue sneaking out to his lips to wet them before he goes on. “I love you, Simon Snow Pitch. With all my heart.”

 

“All of it?”

 

“Each chamber of my heart.” He grins. Bastard’s full of himself, even at the sweetest of times. “Maybe except the one tiny vein near my left arm. That part still wants to push you out a window, sometimes.”

 

It makes me laugh a bit, covering my mouth as I snort. “Tell that part to shut it, then,” I reply, nudging his shoulder. He grins up at me, looking like some lovestruck idiot. It hurts even more than before. “Promise? Promise you love me?”

 

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

 

“Yeah, I guess you are.”

 

His hands find their way to my hips, pushing up the fabric of my shirt and resting against my bare skin. “I promise I love you, Simon. Enough to let you stab me, if you really wanted to.”

 

I mock thinking for a moment before shrugging. “I think I’m fine right now, but thank you for the offer.” I grin at him for a second before sighing, my mind dropping back to the situation at hand. “Fuck,” I mumble. “I… fuck.”

 

Baz’s eyes follow my face, his expression faltering a bit as he pulls me closer. “No. Stop that. Nobody but me is allowed to make you sad. We’ll do something else, alright? We’ll look for a dog, a nice smart one, so it’ll be like a toddler. I heard golden retrievers are bloody brilliant, yeah?”

 

I sniffle, trying to push past the feeling that’s rebuilt in my chest. “Guess so…”

 

“Sh. No, we’re doing it.” His lips press to my cheek a little forcibly, and I take it. Feels good. “Look at me, Snow.”

 

I struggle to meet his eyes, chewing on my lip. “Hm?”

 

His hands move to rest on my shoulders, eyes encouraging me to meet his. “I’m not leaving. I promise that I love you, I promise I’ll never stop loving you, and I promise that this isn’t just some compromise for disappointment. This is a back-up plan; it might not be our first choice, but it’s a perfectly fine option.”

 

I open my mouth slightly, considering a protest out of nature, but he shuts me up with a kiss to the cheek. I take it gratefully. “I love you,” He insists, taking my hands. “Just shut up. You’ll keep saying stupid shit and I’ll keep telling you. I love you, and I’m happy. We can get a dog, fuck, plenty of dogs. We’ll do something with our life that doesn’t require kids, we’ll go on bloody holidays and shit. Want to see Iceland? Never been there, might be a good trip. We don’t have to mope for more than a day or two, okay? Just don’t ride it out.”

 

I nod, lip quivering for all the different reasons. “Okay,” I let out, biting my lip and stuffing my face back into his neck. He lets me.

 

I hear the soft huff he lets out whenever he wants to sound tough, but I know he’s just an unaffectionate git.

 

“Oh shut it,” I mumble, face pressing deeper into his skin. I feel his chin nod against my head, chin resting against my scalp. It’s soothing, to say the least. Makes me squeeze his hands affectionately and breathe into him. Breathe him into me. “This was all just bullshit.”

 

He laughs a little, shaking his head. “It wasn’t just bullshit, it’s something you want. It’s something  _ I _ want, but it’s not something we need.” His palms shift against mine, fingers curling up as his shoulder pulls away. I find my hand, still clasped to his, reaching up to tilt my head back upwards. There’s tears in my eyes again, now for a different reason.

 

He kisses them away.

 

“We’ll just use the baby names on the pets then. Won’t be too bad, and I promise not to drain them. I doubt a corgi would taste that good, anyway, after all the inbreeding and whatnot.”

 

“Hey, Baz?”

 

“Yes, darling?”

 

I smile as warmly as I can, head tilting to the side and looking him sweetly in the eyes. “Shut up, okay?”

 

Baz blinks then chuckles, trying to put back on some defensive face, but I can tell he’s smiling underneath. I kiss away the look, to which he reacts in kind.

 

Even as a grown adult, he seems to give up so much just to get kissed.

 

“I don’t know if I really want a dog yet,” I mumble against him, hands slipping away from his as my arms drape around his neck. “Think I’d prefer a cat.”

 

“Mmm,” he breathes against me, his eyes half opening before shutting again, gently pressing a kiss to the corner of my lips. “A cat it’ll be, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey kiddos, just a heads up i signed up for the big bang and want to work on that at the same time because i guess i enjoy suffering so idk how fast updates will come but i'm hoping to continue updating at least weekly. next chapter is the longest one of the fic so far (4k words), so just a heads up for that !


	8. Take It Easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Occasionally, I stop to wonder how it’s true that he does; I question the natural order. The progression that got us here today, but it makes my head spin. It’s odd to accept his relinquishment of his barriers for me, especially when I still make nasty quips out of impulse. He forgives me, time and time again.
> 
> He forgives me for a kiss on the hair and my hand flatly cupped against his jawbone, thumb smoothing the freckled skin of his cheek.
> 
> -
> 
> A visit to America, and discussions with old friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof i'm sorry for this being late but it's a big boy pls enjoy thank you thank you

**BAZ**

 

“I hate driving in America,” I grumble, merging onto the highway from the airport off ramp. The GPS chirps in agreement and tells me how much longer I’ll be going before going silent. Snow just chuckles, hand resting against my thigh as he stares out the window. 

 

“It’s just driving on the other side, it can’t be that different.”

 

“It isn’t  _ awfully _ different, the drivers are just idiots. Everyone’s idiots.” I turn up the air conditioning in the rental, the awfully humid weather already creeping around me. It reminds me as to why the Americans must be so stupid; their environment turns their brains to mush.

 

Snow just hums nonchalantly, hand wrapping towards the inside of my thigh and holding the fabric of my trousers, his thumb rubbing along the vertical ridges. He seems to like it here, or at least he finds it more tolerable. Granted, it’s about 45 minutes until we see Bunce again, and that usually makes him more chipper than usual. Ever since I’d told him I booked the trip, he’s been a little on the brighter side.

 

After she found out we’d given up, she’s been calling a more than she typically takes the time to do, especially directly to my phone. While I wouldn’t call what she does “grilling”, she does practically make me list his symptoms.  _ “Yes, Bunce, he’s still depressed, thank you for calling today.” _

 

We’ve talked about what we’ve been doing and how we can cheer him up a bit. Usually our verbal conversations don’t span too long, but we text on the regular about other more intellectually stimulating topics. I have to admit, Bunce is a genuine friend of mine and I enjoy conversing with her beyond our shared concern (Snow).

 

That concern hasn’t been out of our minds at all, though, and about a month or two ago, she suggested we take a holiday for a week or so and stay in their guest room. At first, I was hesitant to bring it up to Snow; being in an enclosed house with two children sounds far from the ideal, but Bunce talked me into it. The children are young enough that they go off to a Normal’s daycare while Bunce works from home.

 

She’s a professor for magickal children now, but she teaches online courses. That’s how it’s done over here now, apparently; it’s the digital age, I suppose. I’ve tried to argue that it’s not definite that the students are properly casting spells, but Bunce says it’s the easiest way to teach this specified curriculum to such a widespread country. I couldn’t quite argue that, although regional mage schools  _ sound _ more reasonable than this method.

 

I find myself trusting her either way, though.

 

I trust her with the magickal futures, and with Snow’s mental health, too.

 

She’s even harder to argue with when it comes to Simon. While I’m the one who married him, she might as well be his parent.

 

I’ll give her this one; he seems more cheerful than he has been in a while right now.

 

I can hear him singing softly to the music he’s got hooked up to the Bluetooth, hand rubbing up and down my thigh contentedly. He’s nearly as happy as the day I told him I’d booked tickets to America.

 

I hadn’t really  _ asked _ him if he wanted to go, I’d just told him the date’s we’d been gone and that he’d need someone to cover for him at work. I told him I already booked a long-term substitute at the University, and I just needed him to call in for himself, and so he did. With a smile. A  _ smile _ .

 

The same smile he’s got plastered across his face now, head turned towards the window. The greys and brick of the city start to give away to the greens of trees and slate coloured parking lots as we fill into the suburbs of Chicago. We take a rest stop for Snow to use the bathroom and for me to grab a coffee, my brain still waking from the plane ride. I suppose once he stepped out, Snow spotted me massaging the crick in my neck, which is why he’s taking the minute to try to work it out with his hand. He never had the most nimble fingers, but I appreciate his efforts. And his lips. Kissing it better doesn’t work in practice, but it always helps in theory.

 

We climb back into the car in comfortable silence, riding out the rest of the way to the mundane, everyday neighborhood where the Bunces--yes, Bunces; Micah took her name--reside. The stereotypical manicured ground and white picket fence wipe away any and all suspicion; they’re just an everyday, happy, American family, and not a magickal powerhouse.

 

Bunce is already outside by the time we open the boot, standing with a 28 month old clung to her hip and a weary smile across her face. She reaches an arm out, waving Snow over. “Oi, no hugs yet? Should I be personally offended?”

 

Snow rolls his eyes and pecks my cheek before abandoning me, carry on slung over his arm as he dashes over to pull her into an embrace. I barely hear their exchange of words as I lug our suitcase out, settling it onto the smooth driveway and popping the rolling handle up. The car clicks to a lock as I follow behind Snow, giving Bunce a side hug and a hand kiss for Rosemary. 

 

Soon after, Lily rushes out and tackles Snow’s legs with a tug, screaming off about Uncle Simon. I raise a brow to her, which sends the four year old out into a fit of giggles and sticking her tongue out to me before hugging me as well.

 

I try to not look at Snow’s sad smile.

 

“How was the ride over?” Bunce queries as she lets us inside. We’re blasted with the scent of lavender, vanilla, and old books. It looks just like a house you’d assume Penelope Bunce would reside in; book filled walls, various magickal knick knacks cluttered around. Spelled rugs that whisk away mud, protective walls that don’t let markers stick. It’s a hotbed for what Snow would consider wasted magick.

 

“Not bad,” Snow shrugs, glancing around and narrowing his eyes. “Did you rearrange?”

 

“New flooring,” she replies with a shift of the toddler, giving Snow an exhausted yet loving smile. “You both know your way to the guest room. Have to put Rosey down, but I’ll meet you for tea in the kitchen.”

 

Snow smiles back, leaning against me in the slightest. “Of course. We’ll be down in ten,” he hums, taking hold of my arm before giving me a tug up to the spare room, closing the door as I start putting away clothes.

 

As I fill in the drawers, I feel his body close around my back and hunch, face pressing into my shirt. It makes me smile a little, but my lip catches between my teeth as I chew. “Want to talk?”

 

“Y’already know what I’m thinking,” he mumbles, voice muffled through the fabric. His hanging arms take hold of my middle, wrapping tightly and yanking me closer and sending a little jolt through my spine. I stand, but he stays pressed to my back. Wanker.

 

In a fluid motion, I unclasp his hands and turn to face him, forcing him to stand properly. “ _ Yes _ , I do, but that doesn’t mean you mope.” I chastely press my lips to his before stepping away and going back to diligent work, set actually finishing before Snow decides he’s too emotionally tired to do any of this work.

 

“I don’t think I’m moping.”

 

“Oh, come on. I can hear you pouting from here,” I snip, shutting the drawer before exhaling slowly, eyes closing.  _ Shit _ . “I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”

 

I hear his shuffle, then the bed’s weight creaking underneath him. “No, no. It’s fine. I know I am,” he mumbles through hands. Without looking, I can picture him. Knees pulled to his chest, hands pressed to his face.

 

When I turn, that’s exactly what I see. Fuck.

 

He only turns his head up when my hand rests against his knee as I slowly lower onto the bed beside him. I act like I don’t hear his sniffle, my hand rubbing gently. What the fuck am I supposed to say?

 

Apparently nothing, because he curls towards me, taking hold of my arm and closing his eyes.

 

You never have to say much to Simon, because then he’ll happily say nothing back. He just clings to you and makes you feel all gelatinous inside because he loves you enough to sink into your skin for comfort.

 

I fell in love with Simon Snow Pitch twice. Once when we were 15, and then again when we were 18. The first time, I fell in love with who he is. The second time, with how he loves me.

 

Occasionally, I stop to wonder how it’s true that he does; I question the natural order. The progression that got us here today, but it makes my head spin. It’s odd to accept his relinquishment of his barriers for me, especially when I still make nasty quips out of impulse. He forgives me, time and time again.

 

He forgives me for a kiss on the hair and my hand flatly cupped against his jawbone, thumb smoothing the freckled skin of his cheek.

 

I see it in his eyes now, as they glance up to meet mine, that whatever I say will never change how he feels. He gives me his tired smile, a kiss to the pad of my thumb, and a gentle “I’m fine”. That’s all I ever need to be happy; these moments. It’s fine that they don’t last forever, but it’s the fleeting seconds of softness that he gives me that melt my insides.

 

It doesn’t last. He stands, pulling me to my feet, and whisking us away for tea. He sits us at the kitchen island as I sweep away newspapers and school projects, popsicle stick art and macaroni portraits cluttering the marble countertop. The house is messy, but a warm messy. The sort of lived-in romanticized messy, with children’s toys and parenting monthlies. It’s the sort of messy that I understand, but I suppose I’ll never grow to fully appreciate.

 

Bunce makes her entrance after a bit, mumbling something about their cat as she fills the waterpot and flicks the switch. She sighs a slow, out-the-nose sigh before turning to us, leaning across the countertop. “How was your flight?”

 

Snow shrugs, arm latched around mine. “The usual. Flight security seems to be getting awfully stricter to people, though. Bloody Americans and the over-paranoia.”

 

“Tell me about it. I’ve had people tell me to go back to India,” Bunce mumbles into a biscuit, drawing another out of the casing to offer to Snow, who takes it without hesitation. “People say the nastiest shit to Micah too. Gets threats to report him to the ICE but his parents are Puerto Rican.” She makes a disgusted face, shaking her head as her shoulders sag. I bite my lip and glance at Snow, who’s already moving to hug her. He shoves piles of papers out of the way, arms latching around her neck and clinging.

 

“That’s all right shit, Pen. I’m sorry,” he mumbles, mouth full of dry biscuit. It takes a moment for me to react, and the best I can muster is my hand settled over her’s. I think I see her smile.

 

“Alright, boys, don’t get all sappy on me,” Bunce huffs, clearly grinning now as Snow pulls back. She grabs another biscuit, breaking it in half. “Haven’t even been here for half an hour and you’re gonna make me cry. Pathetic.”

 

Snow laughs, shoulder resting against mine. “Isn’t that what I’m good for, now? Emotional wringing?”

 

“Not before 6pm.” The kettle dings, sending Bunce to pour it. “So… what’s the plan now?”

 

“Watford,” I say quietly, trying to ignore the raise of her eyebrows. “I’m going to accept the offer your mum gave us for me teaching.”

 

“We’ll renovate Ebb’s old barn,” Snow pipes in cheerfully.

 

“We’ll see about that one.” I feel the nudge of an elbow against my side, but I elect to ignore it. “But we’ve been talking over this for a while and we came to the conclusion to take the position.” My arm wraps around Snow’s back, feeling his wings try to prod through.

 

Bunce nods slowly as she keeps her eyes down. “And you’re both sure you can deal with that?”

 

“Yes,” we say in unison, and I’m pretty sure we roll our eyes in unison as well. Takes a lot to parent two kids, but apparently it’s nothing for Bunce to parent two full grown adults.

 

She makes it seem so easy, the whole life thing. Two kids, a career. Sometimes, it feels like Snow and I are behind on the adult train. We’re still a couple of teens trying to fake our way into seeming like we have our shit together; we even have a house to prove it.

 

Bunce turns her head to glance at us, raising her eyebrows before letting them drop with the roll of her eyes. “Okay…” she trails, shoving our tea towards us as she seems to flip the conversation away as quickly as possible. “I have to run out to grab shit for dinner, if you two don’t mind. I’ll wait until Rosey’s up, though.”

 

“We don’t mind at all,” Snow answers for us, snagging a few extra biscuits as he blows on his tea. “Do you want us to babysit?”

 

I watch as Bunce shrugs then squints a little, gears turning. “Actually, Baz, care to join me? Simon, I think you can handle them all yourself.”

 

I feel myself blink in response, but Snow pipes up before my own words can form. “I’m fine with that, Pen.”

 

“Lovely.”

 

We sit in a silence for a few moments, although mine feels a tad involuntary as I mull over Bunce’s suggestion. Of course I don’t mind spending time with her, but I’m curious as to why she wants the emotionally attached one of us to stay with kids following his mental crack. Curious choice, but one that she seems relatively confident about.

 

I’m glad one of us has that sort of feeling available to them.

 

Once the silence breaks between them, I feel the tense weight rise off my shoulders as I listen contentedly to their back all too familiar back-and forth discussion about Bunce’s recent works and Snow’s new television habits. It all brings me back to the time before we were all over complicated by the implications that success immediately correlates to family and impact. It makes my world--our world--feel less constrictive.

 

“Baz?  _ Baz? _ ”

 

I snap away, blinking and shaking my head. “Yes? What was it?”

 

Bunce looks a tad amused, raising her mug to me. “I was asking about your classes.”

 

Ah yes, work. I snort. “Teaching Uni students with a fresh PhD is like being a dog teaching cats to be pets. Feels redundant.” My fingertips trail over Snow’s wrist as I speak, eyes connecting the moles before my skin covers them. I feel his head rest against mine. “I enjoy the concept of teaching, though. Maybe it’ll change once I shift my focus.”

 

Snow’s hand closes around mine, locking our fingers together.

 

I never really imagined myself here. Not here  _ physically _ , but teaching uni. I’d always expected I’d just take over the family inheritance and just grow to be as bitter, cold, and calculating as him in and out of work.

 

I didn’t expect to enjoy teaching this much, but there’s a comfort in restating what you already know a couple times a day throughout a week for a profit.

 

I can see it on Bunce’s face as she starts rambling about her students that she feels roughly the same way. It makes me smile, just a little. Just enough to let her and Snow know I’m comfortable. I always feel the need to give them that; reassurance that I don't hate either of them. I suppose it comes from years of forcing myself to seem as bitter as possible that it now manifests as my realization that I don't really have to be. 

 

Simon tugs my sleeve a little when Bunce heads off to get Rosemary from her nap, drawing my attention away from my floating thoughts. “Hey,” he whispers softly. When I turn to face him, he's so close. I could just lean a little forward and kiss him.

 

I do.

 

“What’s in that mind of yours?” I murmur against him, hand sliding up his forearm. “I can see those gears turning; there's practically smoke coming from your ears.”

 

“S’nothing. Just… babysitting feels odd right now. I’m trying to tell myself that I can do it without going back into a funk.” His palm turns over as my hand trickles back down and intertwines with his fingers. I feel his forehead move against mine, our noses brushing. “I dunno. Sorry.”

 

I shake my head carefully, making sure to keep against him. “No, my love. You don't sound mad in the slightest.” My free hand brushed into his curls, resting amongst them for a moment. “I think it may be a good idea, though. We won't be out for too long.” I feel him nod against me and the gentle warm exhale through his lips, words starting to form but being cut short by a sharply cleared throat.

 

“Okay lovebirds, will you break it for a minute?” Bunce sighs, practically coming to shove between us as she pushes Rosemary into Simon’s arms. He blinks, but holds her to his chest without a second thought. I feel a tug at my left arm, knowing Bunce is practically dragging me away.

 

I give a nod to Snow before Bunce pushes cloth bags into my chest. “Lily’s in the playroom. You can take them outside, but she isn't allowed on the tree because she  _ will _ jump,” Bunce says, pointing a finger at Snow before her face shifts quickly to chipper. “We'll be back soon enough.”

 

I give a quick wave to Snow before following Bunce's bouncing steps. Despite her being roughly ⅔ of my height, her stride has always seemed to carry her miles ahead of me.

 

We pack into her car silently, my hands falling to my lap as she makes her way to the market. Part of me is begging to ask, while the more reasonable part of me is keeping my mouth shut as the car rolls to a stop. Bunce shuffles out and grabs her bags, nodding for me to follow. I do, keeping my eyes downcasted and hands shoved into my trouser pockets.

 

It takes a few minutes for us to speak, the squeaky shuffle of trolleys filling the space around us as she drags one out and the continuous rattle of a broken wheel. “He’s doing better than I’d expect,” she states plainly, as if we’re halfway through conversation already. It’s easy, though, to pick up from there. No context needed.

 

“He’s trying,” I say back, eyes darting to my side as she yanks us to a stop to look at some vegetables. “He tries to keep himself together so hard, but some days it seems to eat him alive. He’ll go back to his zombified state of moving from point A to point B, dissociating to all hell as he tries to convince me that he’s doing alright. I tried to talk him into therapy again, and he tried for a little while, but then said it wasn’t worth it over something he just keeps repeating mindlessly. That there’s no solution to just hurting for a while.”

 

I feel Bunce’s eyes on me, searing into my cheek as she figures out what to say. I stop her before she can even get there. “There’s nothing that can be said to stop his  _ funk _ . It is what it is.”

 

“I’m… I’m sorry, Baz. For the both of you. I know how much he means to you too,” she says gently, hand resting on my arm. I don’t know if it’s the mother in her feeding into the sympathy, or the fact that we’re genuine friends (despite rarely being so warm to each other). “I wish there was something to do, but this is about it.”

 

I shrug, taking a step down the aisle to urge her forward. She follows. “You’re doing that exposure therapy thing. I would say he gets enough of that at work, but…”

 

“But?”

 

I look at her, cocking a brow. “Hadn’t he told you? I’d assumed it’d been discussed at least before we’d arrived. He took a month absence for ‘personal reasons’. He’s back now, but might not be for long. He’s been thinking of quitting. He… he wants to farm, or something. Garden. Horticulturist.”

 

She seems to blink, staring forward for a moment as we walk and come to a halt at the end of the aisle. Her mouth opens to say something, but she mulls over it for a moment longer as we turn and proceed down the next one. “I suppose that’s reasonable, to some extent. I know he loves being outside, but I’d never imagined it’d been  _ that _ much.”

 

“I think it’s more about the creating life aspect. He has control over growth and care; he’s quite good at it. We’ve got potted plants all over the house, and you should see what he’s like when caring for them. He hums and sings.” I feel myself smile, and I allow it. “It’s worth it, Penny. He seems happy then.”

 

I can see the hesitation before Bunce nods, her shoulders dropping a bit. “I suppose. It feels like an odd move, albeit, but if it makes him happy.”

 

I nod quickly, my smile faltering in the slightest. “Whatever makes him happy,” I say softly. It hangs in the space between us, just long enough to simmer.

 

“Does something make you think he isn’t happy with you?”

 

There it is. “No. Yes. Maybe.”

 

She scoffs. “Answer the damn question.”

 

“I think he’d be happier with a kid, that’s all,” I practically snap, coming off harsher than I should. I clear my throat, lowering it to a near whisper. “That’s all. I think he’d be happier if we had kids.”

 

Bunce just shrugs, pushing forward. “There’s always adoption, Baz. It seems like you two were way too dead-set on surrogacy that the alternative might’ve been overlooked.”

 

“It wasn’t overlooked,” we pull to a check out and I automatically begin unloading for her, “it’s a matter of privacy.”

 

She snorts. “Privacy? How much privacy do you need; it’s not like you have family secrets to hide or something--”

 

I clear my throat pointedly, raising a brow. She turns to me, frowning, then blinks, immediately shutting up.

 

“Right. That.”

 

“Didn’t think it was that forgettable, Bunce, but I do thank you for it being so nonchalant that it slips your mind.”

 

“That wasn’t… I forgot that they’re all Normals in adoption.” She pays quickly and we shuffle off, away from anyone else’s possible eavesdropping.

 

“Yes, well, we can’t have vampire teeth and a winged father in a house with a Normal,” I murmur coldly, lifting the boot and helping her fill it with the bags. “So that’s that. Magickal baby or nothing.”

 

She turns to me for a moment, obviously trying to find words again, but I stop her with the raise of my hand. “It’s fine,” I say before giving the slightest of a smile. “I think we’ve moved past it, at this point.”

 

Bunce gives a curt nod, wheeling the trolley off before joining me in the car. We ride home in silence, pulling up and gathering everything.

 

It’s relatively silent inside; maybe too silent if kids should be at play.

 

After unpacking, I head off to the playroom, but stop in my tracks at the door frame. There sits Simon, Rosemary in lap and Lily leaning against his side with eagerness as he reads aloud to them. His voice is gentle and flowing, unlike the usual stumbling in his words. He’s calm; at peace taking care of kids that aren’t even his own but loved as if they were.

 

At that moment, my chest tightens and the cracks in my heart creep a little deeper.

 

Hurts a little more than he’d care to admit.


	9. Distract Me, Darling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s unfair that we can’t just… have a kid,” I spill out before I can hold the words back, letting them tumble from my mouth and float in the air around us. He lifts his head, but doesn’t stop me from continuing. “Like I can’t just fuck you and it solves everything--boom, we have a baby. That shit. It’d be so much easier.”
> 
> Baz chuckles softly, his head lowering back onto my chest as his fingertip traces shapes around my side. “Hm. I don’t know; you could fuck me again and see if it’ll work,” he jokes, a playful smile turning at his lips. It’s somewhat comforting. Enough to make me laugh.
> 
> -
> 
> Sometimes you need to distract yourself from issues out of your control. Baz knows just how to do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this basically a smut break? maybe. is it me trying to really push that 'M' rating? absolutely. also i'm aware that rainbow said that baz isn't a smoker but personally, at least for this fic, i headcanon that he goes back to it because he's just stressed and he craved an outlet, so here. cigs.

**SIMON**

 

Something about this weather makes me feel all warm inside.

 

Granted, it’s a little chilly and quite a bit of mud has been pooling around, but as the rain continues to beat down from the sky, it reminds me that I’ll get to curl up with Baz the moment I step in the house.

 

I lift the mailbox, grabbing out the fistful of papers and magazines filling it before snapping the lid shut and pressing my house key into the lock. I turn and push the door open swiftly, shaking the water out of my hair with it. Deeper into the house, I hear Baz’s deep, welcoming call. “Welcome home, love.” A smile immediately fills my face, kicking the door closed behind me.

 

My bag slides off my shoulder, hitting the ground with a gentle thump. I peel away from my overcoat and untie my shoes, swiftly kicking them aside before making my way off to the living room, where Baz is sprawled out on the sofa with at least two blankets tossed overtop of him as he watches the news headlines scroll by. His head lifts, greeting me with a carefree smile; it’s one which I return without a hesitation. I position myself at the end with his head before leaning down to kiss his forehead. “Did you start dinner?”

 

“Not yet,” he sighs, eyes closed as my lips linger right below his hairline. “Did you want anything in particular?”

 

I shrug, hauling myself back up to stand before walking over to the island table. Quickly, I sort through the mail, faltering on the magazine we must’ve forgotten to cancel.  _ Oh. _

 

Baz must figure something’s up because I see his head pop up for a moment. “What’s wrong?” He asks, squinting a tad to see what I’m holding. “What’s that?”

 

“It’s… ah… it’s a baby magazine. Parenting shit.” I toss it over with the rest of the junk mail, exhaling slowly and forcing a smile. It falls a little, leaving Baz to tut as he pulls himself up and walks over calmly, wrapping his arms around my middle and pressing against my back. His breath feels warm against my neck, closing around a spot as he kisses.

 

“Sorry, love.”

 

“It’s fine,” I shrug again, not daring to look over at it. “Just sort of sucks, you know? Feels like some bad joke, at this point.” Baz’s arms snake around my waist, holding me fighter as my eyes shut.

 

“Then we just cancel the subscription and it’s over with. Forgotten. Gone. Out of sight, out of mind.”

 

I snort, head lifting to look straight ahead. “You shouldn’t deal with your problems by forgetting about them and moving on.”

 

“No,” he says sternly, holding me tighter. “That’s  _ exactly _ what you should do with these sorts of problems.”

 

“Hmph.” My palms rest over the back of Baz’s hands, fingertips tracing his knuckles. “Maybe I don’t want to move on from my problems. Maybe I want to be allowed to wallow sometimes.”

 

Baz’s lips linger a moment longer on my neck before his hands shift away from mine, running up my shirt until they stop over my buttons. Slowly, and one by one, he undoes them. “I’ll just make you forget, then,” he breathes against me, kissing my newly exposed shoulder blades. As the fabric slides further and further off my skin, he trails it with his mouth and only stopping once he’s nearly brushing my waistband. His hands rest against the back of my thighs, thumbs rubbing the upper insides near the hem as I practically bend over the counter. I can feel my pulse in my face, mouth hanging open. At the pause, his forehead rests against the dip of my spine. “That is, if you let me.”

 

“Of course,” I breathe, practically urging him on.

 

His breath is warm against my skin, a soft huff spreading over my exposed curve as he fumbles with my belt buckle and trouser button, yanking them down once he can. Slowly, I feel my boxers drop with them, my bottoms pooling around my ankles as Baz presses an open mouthed kiss to my hip.

 

“Fuck, just get it on with,” I breathe, gripping onto the edge of the island as my legs nudging further apart.

 

I think for a moment that he’s just going to leave me bent over like this, but instead I feel his hands push my cheeks apart before his tongue teases around then in. I gasp involuntarily, letting my hips press back towards him in the slightest. My knees buckle, breath hitching in my throat as he undos me. It doesn't take long; he knows exactly what to do with me to inch me towards the edge. He pulls off when I'm a shaking mess, groaning into my hand.

 

“Turn,” he half orders, tugging my hip in one direction. My feet awkwardly shuffle around, lower back hitting the countertop as Baz takes me down, one hand rubbing my thigh and the other-

 

I gasp, pulling the handful of hair in my hand as I come before slumping back, trying to catch my breath. Mindlessly, my fingers loosen and comb through the tangles I'd left in Baz's hair. I feel the gentle kisses he scatters around my hip and stomach, hands resting at my sides. Slowly, he rises to his feet and steals a kiss away as I calm.

 

A hand winds into my hair, palm cupping the back of my head. “Bedroom?” he murmurs, lips tracing my jaw.

 

I nod, quickly yanking up my bottoms enough to make it to the bedroom and discard them unceremoniously.

 

Cool hands run down my back, resting on my hips and turning me back around to face him. Baz's shirts already across the room, so I take the honor of yanking down his lounge pants and briefs. He kicks them aside, shoving me onto my back before crawling on top, his hands pressed to my wrists and holding them down. After minutes of kissing and grinding, I can't help but smile and push him off a bit. “I'm gonna need a minute,” I breathe, hands flush against his chest. “Do you just want me to get you off?”

 

He huffs, pouting ridiculously. “Rather just have you.”

 

“Oh shove it,” I breathe, smirking running my palm down his torso. “Do you want to come or not?”

 

His face almost breaks for a second, but he bites his lip and seems to force a stubborn look. “I’ll wait. Just keep snogging me.”

 

Wish granted, I suppose.

 

I press him into the mattress, palm resting flat against his abdomen as I kiss him carefully and deliberately. He groans a bit against me, body pressing up against me as my lips travel down his throat. I take my time, tongue trailing against his skin and lips pressed to his collarbone as my teeth sink for a quick nip. Carefully, my lips close around his nipple, giving a gentle suck purely to hear the frankly erotic gasps that escape Baz’s throat. With every kiss, every lick, every teasing touch, I feel him squirm and writhe beneath me, making each moment count.

 

“Please, Simon?” He urges, yanking on my curls with enough force to pull my mouth off his abdomen. “Fuck, just… please?”

 

I grin, kissing my way back up and kissing him briefly before rooting around the bedside drawer. I fumble around with the lube, barely focusing with Baz grinding up pathetically. “Fuck, Simon, Just do it,” he practically growls, pressing against me.

 

I can’t help but laugh breathlessly, getting my fingers coated and teasing him a tad. “Needy, much?”

 

“Oh fuck you, just put it in,” he snaps, rolling his eyes and shifting his hips in the slightest, waiting for me to make the move. How cordial.

 

I hate to admit it, but I love him like this (even as an annoying arse).

 

I love  _ having _ him like this. He seems to wear himself out through it. I hate to be that kind of husband who says “Oh, I don’t really have to do that much work, usually”, but it’d be a lie if I said I  _ did _ . He hates to admit it, but Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch is a power bottom. Cut and dry.

 

I can’t lie, it sort of shocked me at first. Of course, I was curious as to how all this would work out (especially since neither of us had any real experience like this before we got together). But then, one night, Baz just held my hands and sweetly told me that he wanted to ride my dick ‘til I’d cry his name. That’s when I figured where it was going, and I can’t complain at all.

 

I can’t complain about  _ any _ of it. He’s still hot as shit, and he can still tip me over the edge in all the right ways. That, and the aftermath is probably my favorite part of it all. He spells us clean (I let him do that much; I’m too tired to actually clean) and cuddles up to me like I’m the most important thing in the world. He smothers my chest in kisses and calls me gorgeous, calls me the sun, the light of his life. Says everything he’s too proud to say when we’re not being soft.

 

I say I love him, and he tells me he loves me, but it’s not like how we usually say it. It’s gentler; it’s warm and spills out of my mouth like molten caramel.

 

I quite love this sort of moment because we haven’t really gotten one in a while, not with the stress of… all of that.

 

“It’s unfair that we can’t just… have a kid,” I spill out before I can hold the words back, letting them tumble from my mouth and float in the air around us. He lifts his head, but doesn’t stop me from continuing.  “Like I can’t just fuck you and it solves everything--boom, we have a baby. That shit. It’d be so much easier.”

 

Baz chuckles softly, his head lowering back onto my chest as his fingertip traces shapes around my side. “Hm. I don’t know; you could fuck me again and see if it’ll work,” he jokes, a playful smile turning at his lips. It’s somewhat comforting. Enough to make me laugh.

 

“I don’t know if that’ll work,” I murmur, a sad smile sprawled across my face. Baz only tucks his face further into my skin, shrugging a bit like I do as he exhales.

 

“Worth a shot.”

 

I pinch his side, grinning as he lifts his head and shoots me a nasty look. He sticks out his tongue and I lean down quickly, catching it with my mouth and smoothly pulling him into a kiss. He lets back after a while, breath coming out in soft pants. His hand finds mine, raising my knuckles to his lips and kissing them briefly prior to sitting up. “I need a smoke.”

 

I nod, letting his hand drop from mine. I trace my fingers along the veins of his forearm for a moment before letting him go. “Alright.”

 

He pushes the curls plastered to my forehead from sweat, pressing his lips delicately to the center before standing and pulling on a pair of boxers and a robe, heading off to our back porch.

 

I sit in silence for a few extended moments, eyes locked up on the ceiling as my mind wanders off in every which direction. It takes a moment before I haul myself up and yank on pants and sweats, padding out to join Baz.

 

It’s a little chilly, but it’s a pain to get a shirt on with my wings. Instead, I just find a blanket that’s draped over the couch and wrap it around me, heading out to where Baz is leaned against the railing, smoking silently.

 

Silently, I wrap myself around him, the blanket shielding both of us from the late-spring nighttime breeze. I feel his exhale, watching over his shoulder as he taps out the cigarette ash. His head drops back as he turns his face and kisses my cheek, smelling of American Slims. Usually, I’d get onto him for keeping a pack around the house, for which he reminds me will do no harm onto his body, but recently I’ve been caring less. If he wants to cope in his own way, I’m not one to criticize.

 

After a moment, he rolls his head back forward and takes another long drag. I let my head rest into the skin of the back of his neck as my arms hold him tighter. “You know,” I whisper, “if it’s just a family of two, then it’s just a family of two. I might want more sometimes, but you’re more than enough for me to be happy no matter what. You’re my family.”

 

We’re silent for a few minutes, Baz’s free hand finding one of mine and interlocking our fingers. I’m not upset by it; I can feel him thinking out his answer. He never wants to mess anything up, even if it’s just me he’s talking to.

 

“You’re all the family I’ve ever needed,” he whispers gently, and I don’t think I could think of a better answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *drums table* next chapter shoooulllddd be out soon. i actually have it finished and i may post it on archive on Wednesday night because i have a business trip from thursday-sunday for an awards show in LA so i'm gonna be offline until sunday afternoon.
> 
> with that said, i'll make a post on tumblr for next chapter that'll be queued for maybe friday, so if you're a tumblr reader who's checking archive too, you'll get it on archive before tumblr!


	10. Difficult

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We stick to the silence again for a few moments before I brave a question. “So… Watford,” I begin. “Is the position still up in the air?”
> 
> “Oh, of course,” she quickly begins. “We’re always happy to have a Pitch on the grounds to carry on the family legacy. There’s just… a slight hesitation, and I’m not turning down the job at all, it just…” Her words seem to catch in her mouth, floating around until she can capture the right ones. “It may change your minds.”
> 
> -
> 
> Children aren't always brought into your world in the way you expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okok i meeaaaannntttt to have this posted sooner, but life had different plans. and by that i mean i got sleepy oof
> 
> but hey, this is the turning point in the fic! get ready for actual parent!snowbaz next chapt!

**BAZ**

 

The air feels stiff as Simon picks at the table cloth, pinching his cloth napkin between his fingers and rolling the material between the pad of his thumb and index. The restaurant’s quite upscale, and it’s a lovely time for lunch, but he just seems more uncertain than usual; part of me can’t help but wonder if he’s nervous to talk to Headmaster Bunce in case she brings the situation up. I can’t blame him. After all, she’s the closest thing to a mother in our lives (I wouldn’t quite count Fiona as a parent figure).

 

It’s nice to keep track with her; while we don’t always see eye-to-eye within magickal politics, she’s easily lovable and brilliant in debates. Bunce is practically a carbon copy of her mother in several ways, which I’ve grown thankful for. It makes it easier to keep connected with Watford and with politics in general without having my father involved. Hell, he isn’t quite my father anymore, he’s Malcolm, spoken of in hushed, bitter tones and to be forgotten. He’s something I’d rather not think about right now.

 

Mitali Bunce, though, instead is a tough love mother. She meets Snow and I for lunch at least once a year, and we swap emails at least once a month. The younger Bunce said her mother grew more used to Snow following the aftermath of the Humdrum; no one was sending monsters off onto him to fight, so suddenly he’s “safe”. Although, I don’t think I’d ever describe Simon Snow Pitch as “safe”.

 

This lunch, I presume, is to discuss the formalities of my job acceptance at Watford. When I sent her the email last week to confirm that I wished to take the job, she simply responded “We have quite a bit to discuss, Mr. Pitch. I believe we should speak about this in person. With love always, Mitali Bunce”.

 

So now here we are, a relatively more upscale French cafe in town, with Simon’s nervous motions as he tries to occupy himself with everything else until Headmaster Bunce arrives (fashionably late).

 

I feel Simon’s hand rub against my forearm as he pulls for my attention, trying to grab my attention away. “Baz?” He asks softly.

 

“Yes, dear?”

 

“Can…” he trails off, hesitating slightly. “Can we try to talk her into letting us take over Ebb’s old house?”

 

I smile, relaxing a little. “Yes. I think that’s alright.”

 

He nods, palm slipping down and pressing against mine, our fingers winding together. “Okay, yes, yeah, good. Thank you.”

 

I nod, bringing his knuckles up and brushing a kiss against them. I watch as he turns to grin and leans his head against my shoulder silently. We sit like that, in our own bubble, until Headmaster Bunce greets us with a grin, sliding into the eat across from us. “Hello, hello, hi, hello,” she hums, resting her purse beside her. “Sorry for being late, the tube took us a minute.”

 

Snow shrugs against me, lifting himself from my shoulder. “It’s alright. How are you doing, Mrs. Bunce?”

 

She mirrors his shrug, seeming a little looser than him. “I’m quite fine. Now that term’s wrapping up, it’s lovely to spend time with the kids before they’ve emptied the nest.” Her eyes scan the menu briefly, fingers drumming the leather backing. “Did you two order already?”

 

“No, just drinks,” I hum, my fingers lacing with Snow’s.

 

She nods shortly, snapping the menu shut moments later before smiling. “Now, care to give a life update, or should I just feel like our digital correspondence has been enough to cover it all?”

 

Snow doesn’t answer (big words?), but I let out a chuckle in response. “No no, it’s fine. Not much has happened. America was nice, and Penelope promised that they’d make at least a week trip over sometime this summer. Classes ended well; I only had a few failing students, all of whom I’m sure were disinterested in the class overall due to their low attendance.” I sip my water, thinking for a moment before looking at Snow. “Care to…”

 

He seems to hesitate before clearing his throat. “Yes,” he says, “I quit my job. My last day was a week ago, and I’ve been home since.”

 

Headmaster Bunce simply blinks, eyeing over him curiously but showing no further signs of surprise. Maybe it was something that was expected… “That’s a shame. Never thought you’d want to quit social work.”

 

Snow’s lip twitches, eyes casted down onto the empty spot in front of him as he studies the detailed stitching of his napkin again. “I didn’t want to, I had to. Needed to take the time to take care of myself.” My hand runs along the backside of his, slowly running back down. His eyes shut and I catch myself watching the bob of his adam’s apple. “It’s for the best,” he ends, forcing himself to open back up and look the elder Bunce in the eyes.

 

She doesn’t react much at first, busying her hands with shifting the silverware to align in parallel to the edge of the table before she exhales slowly. “Well, if you two come to Watford, there’s always an open position for an on-staff therapist. I know you have the degree, so long as you’d want to.”

 

He smiles, but his squeeze of my hand tells me it’s forced. “Thank you, Mrs. Bunce.”

 

She’s fooled enough, or perhaps too kind to make an issue of it, because she drops the subject for the fleeting moments of silence. It’s broken by the waiter stopping over, taking our orders before whisking back off.

 

We chat about various topics for a little while, Simon’s hand slowly rubbing up and down my forearm as the Headmaster and I bounce back and forth over politics and the magickal finance world. I can tell Snow’s completely zoned out because he’s tracing shapes onto my skin, but his now mindless, gentle smile tells me that everything’s calmed down in his head.

 

It’s nice. There’s no real debate, just discussion of how technology is changing how the structure of spells are working and whether or not to cut Latin courses and rather offer it as a club (which she says would free up more spots for new age spell courses, to which I counter with the importance and strength of old spells). There’s no hostility between our discussions, just a ping-pong of our own mixture of new and old arguments from different standpoints. It’s enjoyable.

 

Our food comes and Snow dives in, per-usual, filling his cheeks eagerly as I nudge his foot with my own under the table. He blushes faintly, chewing slower and more thoroughly as he sends a death-glare at me. I grin back.

 

We stick to the silence again for a few moments before I brave a question. “So… Watford,” I begin. “Is the position still up in the air?”

 

“Oh, of course,” she quickly begins. “We’re always happy to have a Pitch on the grounds to carry on the family legacy. There’s just… a slight hesitation, and I’m not turning down the job at all, it just…” Her words seem to catch in her mouth, floating around until she can capture the right ones. “It may change your minds.”

 

I raise an eyebrow at her, feeling Snow’s grip on me tighten. “In what way?”

 

She pauses, lips pursing together as she remains silent. I can practically feel the moments tick away as every ounce of doubt and questioning floods into my brain. It’s about the vampirism, isn’t it? Bad example on the students. They wouldn’t want some sort of monster in the halls, if the council knew--

 

“There’s a magickal child who was surrendered to a care home,” she says gently, eyes shifting between Snow and I.

 

My heart nearly stops, and I’m nearly sure Snow’s actually has, because he stops moving entirely for at least a minute (including breathing) until he sputters out a “What do you mean?”

 

Headmaster Bunce is already raising both hands, trying to calm us. “Before you both get excited, I need to warn you--”

 

“How old? Where?” Snow is already rapid firing, his brain obviously shooting out words before he can think them through. “We’ll adopt them. No need to go through--”

 

“Simon,” she’s smiling as she stops him. “Please, let me explain?”

 

Snow stops himself, nodding shortly as he looks at me. Sometimes I can’t read the bloody man; his eyes read one thing and his mouth reads another (usually “Hungry”). Now, it’s a swirling mix of emotions that I can’t seem to decipher. Fear? Anxieties? Hope? This better not be another false hope, or I swear on every fucking ounce of my own grave that I’ll off everyone in this room.

 

“The child’s a little boy, and he’s nearly four. He was left with a small box that’s now in storage under his name; there wasn’t much in it, but they were heavily magickal objects, including an old family wand. The nurses and caretakers all assumed they’re toys and hid it away since he’s so young that he might try to break them.” She shifts in her seat and opens her bag. I can feel Snow’s grip lock tighter onto me, squeezing my fingers half to death as Headmaster Bunce pulls out her phone. She unlocks it, swiping through and pulling up a picture. It’s a young boy with solid brown eyes and shocking pale complexion, face full of freckles and a visible, pink birthmark covering the bottom sixth of his right cheek. His hair is a bright, wirley orange, poking out in every which direction.

 

She hands Snow the phone, continuing on. “A mage nurse found him when he went into hospital for a check-up. He has some health issues, especially with his heart, poor soul. The nurse immediately felt it on him; he’s nothing like…” she trails, hesitating as she waves her hand at Snow. You were. “He’s powerful. Not ridiculously powerful, but it’s there. But he’s volatile and completely skittish around almost all adults.”

 

My eyes trail to Simon as she talks, peering over his shoulder as he sits still, simply staring at the image. No moving of it, no zooming or swiping around, just staring. I double check to make sure he’s breathing, that he’s conscious and truly there, but I’m not sure if the latter is true. It’s almost like he’s collapsed within himself, brain rewiring itself. I’m a little afraid he might cry.

 

“How long have you known?” I ask, voice with a bitter edge. It’ll break his fucking heart if he knows it’s been his whole life.

 

“Not too long. We’ve known, overall, for two months. The Coven has been deciding what to do, who this should be trusted with, because this nearly never happens.” Both of our gazes drag to Simon, who’s still too awestruck to even notice. We meet each other’s eyes again, her head bobbing in a nod. “We contemplated having him raised on Watford grounds, but the paperwork would be odd and we’d need to find a teacher living on grounds to care for him, and finding a teacher who wants to raise a child simultaneously is more than a little difficult on such short notice. But I suggested we bring this up with you. Who else to raise the only other mage in a care home than the first. And, after all, you both have been trying to have children. It might be best for all if you’ll consider it. We understand that it may be difficult--”

 

“When can we meet him?” Snow sets down the phone, looking at the Headmaster with tear-streaked cheeks as he sniffles, wiping his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve.

 

She takes back her mobile, setting it back into her purse and zipping it closed. “I’m not quite sure it’ll be that easy. We have to set a meeting and--”

 

“I have all my clearances. I can just waltz in. I will just waltz in, please. Just take us to him?”

 

She glances back between us, and I’m unsure of what I could say or do to persuade her to lead us to him, but she cracks without any added pressure, sighing and nodding her head slowly. “Alright, okay. You just have to be aware, he’s difficult.”

 

Snow bites his lip, glancing back at me and softening a little around the edges when I squeeze his hand. “That’s fine. So are we,” he says, breaking into a smile.


	11. He'll Be Ours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breaks my heart a little, seeing him so scared of even talking to us. I know exactly why, and I would be too. I was too. I remember my first encounter with The Mage, nearly entirely sure that he was there to collect me for an asylum, but the way he explained everything changed my world.
> 
> -
> 
> Behind plexiglass windows and a buzzing door lies a lifechanger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof i know this took me a week but i'm workin on my Carry On Big Bang fic (which i hope y'all will love as much as i'm loving it right now) so please be patient with me aaaa!!!

**SIMON**

 

Somehow, the car ride is the longest one I’ve ever been in. 20 minutes is a decade to tick by, fingers drumming against knees and eyes stuck outside. Baz and Mrs. Bunce swap questions and answers regarding the situation, but I just tune them out. Nothing really matters; all that matters is that the child, Oliver, his name is Oliver, is  _ ours _ .

 

Something in me snapped when I saw him, something I didn’t think I’d have to think of again.

 

I was six. Someone took the toy I was playing with, and when I got angry, they pushed me into the mud and and left me there.

 

I went off. No one knew what happened, or where it came from, but all I remember from the days following was I was rehomed and this time, none of the kids even talked to me. I later figured that they weren’t  _ allowed _ to; that they figured I was some sort of freak to be left untouched. Whenever I’d speak out, I’d be silenced. I could only talk through hits and kicks, and each time a bigger kid came near me, I’d try to skin my teeth into their skin.

 

Got me nowhere but more locked away, more hidden from others. Care homes would separate me, would keep me away from the rest of them.

 

_ The freak nearly broke another kid’s arm. Someone said they saw him lift a table just by looking at it. Put him in the supply room ‘til and throw a lock on it. He’ll calm down eventually. _

 

If Oliver’s anything like me, then he can’t be left there any longer than possible before I can bring him home, far away from anybody who’ll hurt him, who’ll get hurt by a hurt kid in a hurt world that’s just structured to keep hurting him.

 

I keep spiraling, squeezing my eyes shut as another tear runs down my cheek. My breathings labored, my hands are in my hair, pulling on it, trying to get me to calm.

 

Baz’s hand rests on my thigh, rubbing slowly as he tries to soothe me. I don’t know where it all came from; 17 years of desperately wanting out of a system ooze out of me in a steady stream of tears. I sob, trying to cover my face with my hands and arms, but it won’t stop. My breath is short, bursting out of me as it all cracks and breaks.

 

I can’t say it, but saving him means saving myself. Fixing everything that hurt me.

 

If I can just make Oliver smile, then I know that making it through the 17 shittiest years of my life would have been entirely worth it.

 

I shake my head to stop Baz’s fussing, to stop Mrs. Bunce’s hand on my shoulder, reached around from the back seat, from all of it comforting me, because I’m just crying because I need to rather than want to. It’s like letting go of something I didn’t know I clung to, but here it is, scattered out in front of me. Years of anger, years of hiding it deep inside, splayed out for me to see instead of repress.

 

“Please, take my hands.” Baz’s voice comes through as if he’s underwater, a warped swirl of his words as I choke out another sob. I manage to reach out, the murky pond of my mind letting my body break through to hold his hands. They’re strong; stable. I hold tighter, sputtering out for breath as my chest clenches in on itself.

 

Slowly, I force in shaking breaths as my vision of the car’s interior stabilizes. Every part of me is screaming to speak, but I can’t force it out. It’s stuck in my throat, down where it’s been kept for so long. It seems to want to stay, live back where it can’t be touched by anybody else.

 

I know it’s there for him too, for Oliver. Or it will be, or would’ve been, if we could never have him or if we’d never known.

 

“Keep going,” I urge, calming enough. “ _ Please _ , Baz, just keep going.”

 

Baz looks shaken, staring at me for Merlin knows how long before nodding and letting go of me, turning back to the wheel and pulling us back onto the road. My eyes keep on him as I sniffle, a hand hesitantly reaching out to rest on his knee. He exhales, a hand dropping to mine for the briefest of moments, holding it and giving it a brief squeeze before gripping the wheel again.

 

I space back out until we’re there, my mind lost back in memories I wish I could get rid of.

 

The squeeze from Baz’s hand snaps me out of it, his gentle kiss of my knuckles telling me I’m alright.

 

I carry myself out of the car, straightening out my shirt. In moments, Baz is at my side, hand locked against mine and pushing the hair out of my face as his lips press to my forehead. I let him, resting against him for the briefest moment before we part, hands still locked together as we’re lead inside by Mrs. Bunce.

 

Something about care homes make me wince.

 

Maybe it’s the somehow consistent scent of cleaners that all them use (store brands, “unscented”). Maybe it’s the soft buzz of the glass in front of the reception/check in, barring you from the insides.

 

Maybe it’s just that I can’t let go.

 

“Who are you here for?” the lady questions, looking up at the three of us. Mrs. Bunce steps up, showing them a badge. I’m not quite sure what of, but it’s understood immediately by the woman sitting there.

 

“Oliver G.”

 

She nods, sitting up more and standing up with a clipboard. “Reason of visit?”

 

“Potential fostering and adoption,” I quickly respond, holding onto Baz’s arm. “We want to meet him.”

 

The secretary looks bored. She scans over us, nodding. “IDs.”

 

I part from Baz, quickly digging it out from my wallet and sliding it under the small opening in the plexiglass, feeling a tad like I’m a teenager again. Except this time I’m in my late 20s, a healthy weight, and not feeling like absolute death.

 

Baz slides his over slowly, a free hand settling on my lower back. He stays silent, leaning against me subtly as they check over everything, sliding them back with newly printed visitor’s badges.

 

She glances up at us. “Here. First door on the left; he’ll be sent in to meet with yous.”

 

I nod quickly for an answer, practically dragging Baz along with me as I make a b-line past the visitor’s door and into the room we’d been directed to. It’s quite cozy, trying to make it seem friendly for us. It isn’t like we’re “shopping”, but the vibe of it is that we’re here to pick and choose who we want to see.

 

I suppose we are, though. Sort of. In a way.

 

We’re here to see our son for the first time.

 

The thought of that makes my chest constrict and mind spin. I’d given up and accepted that we’d live child-free, then suddenly we’re told that there’s a child for us, a child that we could raise comfortably in a house where we can be ourselves. We’ll have a child that’ll be safe and happy; a member of our family.

 

Baz and I sit back as Mrs. Bunce nods silently and leaves us, wordlessly acknowledging what this moment will mean.

 

Sat in a loveseat, my head dips to rest against Baz’s shoulder, relaxing as his arm wraps securely around my shoulder, keeping me close. I feel myself loosen, warming to his grip as I glance up towards his face. It’s not ice cold, but it’s not quite comfortable either. There’s a recognizable twinge of anxiety plastered across him, which I probably should’ve figured by the restless bounce in his right leg. I wish I could help him, but I know better than to point it out and make a fuss of it. I just take his hand, winding our fingers together as I exhale slowly. A gentle kiss to his ring finger; a reminder that we’re in this together.

 

When the click of the door rings through the room, we shift apart in the slightest, hands still locked together as it swings open, a nurse scooting in Oliver.

 

He’s got a band-aid on his cheek and forearm, and his hair’s quite ruffled. Looks a tad like you’d think of in some ridiculous orphan commercial, begging for money; a tattered toddler with glassy, huge eyes.

 

He stays by the door, eyes on us cautiously without approaching. His arms curl into his body, hugging his waist as he backs up a little. I watch his eyes cover us, squinting and matching the confused frown on his face. I know he knows he’s safe, because all these facilities are the same; cameras everywhere. I can point out the two in the room on a single glance.

 

Oliver looks around nervously, then back at us, making my stomach churn as he stares at us unsteadily.

 

He has to trust us. I’ll make him trust us.

 

I stand slowly, hands outreached to show I’m approaching with caution. He stays still, not flinching but not advancing either. I step closer once, then twice, before kneeling down closer to his level. His eyes follow me, but his body stays turned in upon itself.

 

Part of me tells me to brave it, to speak to him. The other part of me is screaming that it might scare him away. The impulsive side always wins. “I used to be like you,” I say gently, hands on my knee that’s propped me up. “I grew up in homes. I didn’t have a mummy or daddy to care for me.” I manage a smile, trying to keep that steady. “It’s okay, we’re not going to let that happen to you. We want to be your dads.”

 

Oliver stays frozen, his eyes locked on me as I speak before darting back and forth between Baz and I. He loses all the tenseness in him, arms dropping to his sides as he stares silently. I’d be unsure if he could understand us if it wasn’t for the way he’s fixating on my face.

 

I listen to the shift of the sofa and the approach of Baz’s shoes against the hardwood floor. They stop just behind me before he kneels at my side as well, absolutely silent, but staying with me. I’m almost entirely sure he’s silent because he doesn’t know what to properly say, but he just wants to be here. It’s more than enough to make me relax, my smile growing more organic and less nervous as I outstretch a hand towards Oliver. “I know you don’t trust us, but we want you to.”

 

He keeps shifting between us silently, looking at my hand and every little detail. He might be feet away, but he’s clearly focused on figuring out what to do.

 

Breaks my heart a little, seeing him so scared of even talking to us. I know exactly why, and I would be too. I  _ was _ too. I remember my first encounter with The Mage, nearly entirely sure that he was there to collect me for an asylum, but the way he explained everything changed my world.

 

I sit, chewing my lip nervously as I think through anything,  _ anything _ that’ll get him to truly trust us before a plan pops into my head. It’s risky, and it’ll have to be quick, but it’s the best way to get it done.

 

I lean in close to Baz, hand resting on his bicep as I whisper into his ear. “Can you fog up the cameras real quick? Keep the audio running, but make sure they’re all static in video feed.”

 

He gives me a look, and it’s only one that he gives when he has no other words to ask why I’m being an idiot, but he surprisingly just nods and stands. A hand slips into his pocket and draws out his wand, slipping it immediately up into his sleeve. With a murmur of “ **_Look Away_ ** ”, I’m already shifting my jumper. The back slides down enough so I can let my wings shimmy out, stretching behind me. 

 

Oliver’s eyes go wild, staring up into the air and following the swift extend of my wings, spreading out around us. With only a slight hesitation before, he reaches out to touch them curiously. His hands grab the outer edge of my left side, his mouth falling open as he rubs it between his fingers, figuring out what he’s seeing.

 

He turns his face back to ours, blinking up at us. Slowly, Baz pulls his wand out beside me, showing Oliver with a flourish before slipping is back up his sleeve.

 

I smile, watching the wonder flood his face as he eyes back and forth between us. His hands gently tug at my wing, feeling the bone extending down. He blinks, seeming unsure of what he’s seeing, but surely glad it’s there.

 

I glance back at Baz as I carefully pull back in my wings, careful to not hit Oliver as they retract. Baz just nods, tapping his wand against them as he whispers the invisibility spell for them, helping me slip them back under my jumper.

 

I turn back to Oliver as Baz quickly spells the video feeds right, wand dipping back into his trouser pocket. The boy’s face is lit up in wonder, blinking curiously between us as I smile and take Baz’s hand, standing up beside him. “You’re not mad, and you’re not different. There’s a lot of people out there life you,” I say gently, a grin across my face. “ _ We’re _ like you.”

 

He blinks slowly, a second ticking by before his face spreads out into a toothy grin, staring back up at us with a newfound joy.


	12. Honor The Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I look at Simon, Simon Snow Pitch, and I remind myself that I am honoring the name.
> 
> When we decided that we’re giving Oliver the singular last name ‘Pitch’, I became sure that I’m truly honoring the family name, blood or not.
> 
> -
> 
> Oliver's coming home.

**BAZ**

 

The past few months have felt more like a blur than an actual, viable space and time.

 

The visits to the house, the background checks, the childproofing, the visits to Oliver. All of it.

 

Snow’s taking it surprisingly well; despite obviously being anxious over the confirmation, he’s a tad more cheerful than he’s been for the past year or so. I’ve found him, on multiple occasions, spread out in our office once I get home with piles of homeschooling, his tail slowly swaying behind him to the music playing on the Bluetooth speakers. He’ll just look up on those days with such a big smile, telling me what he’s planning on teaching as he glues pictures to large note cards, information on it on the back.

 

Some days, I join him, wrapped around him from behind as he works almost robotically. He’s all warm and calming, his wings almost creating a blanket around him as he works.

 

Most days are dedicated to fixing up the bedroom now. Snow got Oliver to talk about a month back, managing out a few words on occasion, like what his favorite colour is, to which he said “Orange.”

 

The walls of his room are now an orange-creamsicle colour with a white trim.

 

Simon, thankfully, let me get all the furniture, setting up comfortable blankets around his twin bed and a full toybox. Fiona kindly donated a few rocks that she said are toys. I did not put those in the box.

 

It feels nearly unreal. The stuffed bear on his bed, the closet and dresser filled with clothes, the tiny dress shoes and wall paintings and the hugs he gives Simon as we leave. It’s surreal; it’s somehow heartbreaking and spirit-rising simultaneously.

 

He hasn’t quite warmed to me, though. I try to remind myself that he’s skittish and the only reason he’s warmed to Simon so well is because he’s an automatically sweet, comforting person, yet at times I can’t help but think that it’s something wrong with me. Granted, I’m not the kindest person to be around, but I think back to Malcolm and my upbringing. All of those strict stares and no hugs but all handshakes. Proper dinner seating. Everything has its place, and every order is as such for a reason. Man marries woman. Have children. Honor the family name.

 

Sometimes I look at Simon, Simon Snow  _ Pitch _ , and I remind myself that I am honoring the name.

 

When we decided that we’re giving Oliver the singular last name ‘Pitch’, I became sure that I’m truly honoring the family name, blood or not.

 

Now comes the time to take him home, to let him sink into our lives as abruptly as he came into it.

 

Snow anxiously shifts every few moments of the car ride, mind running through what he’s to say, what he’s to do. I want to remind him that there’s no right or wrong way he’ll greet Oliver into our lives fully (at last), but then again, I feel myself questioning how well  _ I’ll _ greet him. If I offer him a hug, will he take it? I refuse to outstretch a hand; he’s not even four. He’s a child, not a businessman.

 

Instead, I just comfort Snow with the squeeze of my hand and the rub of my thumb against his wrist. I hear his sigh and I catch his head turn towards in the corner of my eye. “Are you ready for this?” He asks, voice careful as ever. I’m not entirely sure he’s asking me this, rather than himself.

 

“I’d like to think I am,” I state back, voice leveled. “We’ve spent months preparing, after all.” I pause, trying to find comfort in what I’m saying. Part of me is envious of Snow’s ability to be so close so easily to Oliver; I get choked up every time they hug because he’s so close already, but I’m afraid he’ll never be close to me. I remind myself, though, that even the best of people need reassurance. “He already loves you, Simon. He talks to you, he smiles at you. You’re his dad, love; you can already tell it on his face. You’ve got this.”

 

He stays silent for a minute, his gaze trailing down to our joint hands as he gives mine a reassuring squeeze. “He’ll warm up to you too,” he says back.

 

I swallow audibly, barely managing a nod in response.  _ Will he, though? _

 

We stay quiet until we arrive, wordlessly unbuckling seat belts as Snow grabs the manilla file out of the car door, holding it close to him as we step inside.

 

We’re greeted by our caseworker, Oliver, and a staff member in the lobby as we step inside. There’s a single suitcase of Oliver’s belongings, as well as a box held by the staffer (I can already feel the wand inside; it’s old,  _ old _ magic). They all turn their heads once the bell aboves us dings and Oliver grins, waving to Snow gleefully. In return, Snow rushes from my side to greet Oliver, offering his arms to pick him up. He nods, and he’s scooped up into Snow’s arms.

 

I stand awkwardly, nodding to the adults without moving a step. Our caseworker nods back as she stands, her briefcase at her side. “Shall we step back for the finalized paperwork? All of it’s been approved, we just need signatures now.”

 

“Of course,” I respond, waving a hand briefly to directly them back, all four of us following her lead as Simon coos and speaks with Oliver joyously. It nearly makes all of the waiting feel like a blink of an eye; we’re here now.

 

We all take seats at a table, the papers going back and forth between Snow and I for signing until it’s all finally done, the last bit of ink touching the documents and officially settling that Oliver is now  _ our’s _ .

 

Simon grins and offers his hand out to Oliver, who lays his palm down against his. “Are you ready to come home, Ollie?”

 

The child-- _ our child _ \--nods, grinning and keeping his palm pressed to Snow’s hand. The staffer offers his bags over to me silently, to which I take with a mutter of a “thank you”. As Snow and Oliver start out, I speak to the case worker briefly about her first settling visit in six weeks and wish her a nice day before whisking off to the car. I listen to Snow’s chatter as he buckles Oliver into his car seat while I load the boot, closing it without a slam and taking my seat in the front.

 

The car ride home is music-less, but Snow’s hand against my knee calms me enough as we ride, taking the long trip back to the house.

 

By the time we’re there, it’s late afternoon and Oliver’s dozed off in the back seat.

 

I don’t dare to get him.

 

Snow does instead, carefully unbuckling him and holding him against his front, magically keeping him asleep I grab his bags before unlocking the front door.

 

Snow’s feet are heavy against the stairs, the muffled thumps echoing down the halls of our usually empty house.

 

It isn’t empty anymore, though. We’re a family now. Or, at least, legally. I’m a father now; I have a child’s seat in my Mercedes and we have childproofing on low cabinets. I’m listed as a parent, a guardian, a caretaker for a child that barely even looks at me. Despite all that, though, now I stand as a father, leaned against my kitchen’s island and trying to take a deep breath as it all hits me at once.

 

I love him. I truly do. I don’t know how I’ll ever show it without fearing that I’m too cold to be a parent, but the way he smiles and felt comfortable enough to sleep around us makes my chest swell and eyes sting. He’s ours; he’s home, and I’ll do anything in my fucking power to make sure that he’s safe for the rest of his life. He’ll get whatever he wants whenever he wants it; I’ll fight a fucking pack of merwolves if they even snarl at him.

 

He’s my son.

 

I say it out loud.

 

“He’s my son,” I say into the empty air around me. It echos very slightly from the tiled kitchen, bouncing back to me.  _ He’s my son _ . I break into a smile, feeling myself choke up as I hold the countertop tighter. He is; he’s my son. I repeat it, saying it over and over to nobody but myself. “He’s my son, he’s my son, he’s my son--”

 

“He’s our son,” Simon says, leaning against the stairway with a grin. I snap my head to see him and respond with a faint smile back. He steps closer, wiping my eyes and pressing a kiss to my cheek. I lean into it. “He’s our son, and he’s home.”

 

I nod against him, my smile breaking wider as I shamelessly sniffle. “Yes, he is.” I straighten up my composure, recollecting myself. “I should make dinner, he’ll be hungry when he gets up.”

 

“Don’t overdo it, love. We won’t need a feast; we have stuff for a roast and some potatoes. That’ll be good, especially since it’s nippy out.” His lips rest against my cheek again, breath tickling my skin. He’s on his tiptoes to reach me.

 

“I won’t; I’ll keep it simple.” My arm hooks around his waist, dragging him in front of me as I firmly place a kiss to his lips. He takes it, staying for a second and humming against me before pulling back and kissing my jaw, setting his feet flat on the ground.

 

He breaks away after a long moment, staring up at me with glassy eyes as he grins from ear to ear. “We’re a family now. The family we wanted,” he says quietly. This time, I’m sure he’s talking to himself, but it makes me nod and press my nose into his curls, inhaling slowly.

 

“Yes, yes we are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, i'm so sorry for being the slowest updater recently (and for such a short chapter oof); next chapter is also in baz's pov, to warn, and is really baz-heavy. hopefully that'll be out within the next week or two !
> 
> on the bright side, my COBB fic is well over the original word count, may surpass my second estimate for the word count (which was about double the original), and may have to come in chapters because it's quite massive.


	13. Dysfunctional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I shut my mouth after a moment, nodding my head slowly as my hands rest against his cheeks, pulling him into a kiss. He lets me, leaning over the seat and kissing me gently. He tastes like frosting and cinnamon. He tastes like I should probably stay home.
> 
> But yet, instead, he takes me by my shoulders and pushes me back. “Go,” he urges, smiling a bit. “My anniversary gift to you.”
> 
> -
> 
> Despite leaving his old world behind, Baz can't quite fully let go yet, especially with a family of his own.

**BAZ**

 

I can hear the telly, but it sounds a million miles away.

 

It’s there in front of me despite that, blasting a jolly Christmas movie (I think it’s Frosty the Snowman; I can’t quite focus enough to tell) that can’t seem to break through my shell. There are a few things that I can tell, though. One, I’ve got my arm around my husband, and our son’s on the floor in front of us, playing with the gift we let him open after dinner. Two, that it’s Christmas Eve and our nine-year anniversary. Finally, I’m aware that I’m in my house, one that I’ve owned and lived in for years, and that I’ve got a loving family.

 

Despite these, I still feel like everything around me exists from behind a glass window. The twinkling lights of the tree, Simon’s socked feet tucked underneath my thigh, our shared sofa blanket and the hot chocolate in my hands. Even when his head dips to rest on my shoulder, chin tucking up for a moment and pressing his lips to my neck, I still feel somewhat gone.

 

Everything melts back to being young, Christmas Eve dinner at home in dress suits and formal, tight lipped nods of approval.

 

No, no. Not ‘home’. That hasn’t been my home in a lifetime. Not since Malcolm disowned me before the wedding; not since I dropped the Grimm. After our family dinner argument, the first time I’d ever fully raised my voice to him so to stand up for Simon, he’d told me that I could never truly be a son of his, then I’d said that mum could’ve done better than him. That’s when I decided enough was enough.

 

It shouldn’t bother me nearly this much, but it does. It seeps into my skin, scratching me from the inside as my mind works over memories of feeling the need to be who my father wanted from me. The sneer in his face when he told me that I’d never have a family, and that my life choices were a disappointment to all of them. Blood traitor, lineage killer,  _ a waste of the Pitch heir _ .

 

“Baz, darling?” Simon’s voice shakily breaks through, sneaking into my head and snapping me away. As I turn to him, his eyes are narrowed in concern. “I’d asked if you wanted some of the yule log cake…”

 

My hand finds his and squeezes briefly. “I… sure, yes, that sounds lovely.”

 

His eyes search over mine briefly before he nods and pulls back, padding off through the kitchen to grab some. Oliver’s head lifts, eyes following him before saying “I want cake” softly. Simon softly chuckles from behind me, stepping out a minute later with two plates, one holding a smaller slice. He places the smaller one in front of Oliver, leaning down to press a kiss to his head before joining me back under the blanket.

 

A fork jabs at my lips as Simon insists on feeding me the first bite, grinning at me and prodding at my mouth until I open up and take it, giving him a forcibly bored look and chewing. He thanks me with a kiss, eating some himself as he curls up to my side. His head takes a rest against me again as he eats nearly half the slice in a matter of a minute, pausing and offering me another bite, to which I take with rolled eyes. It’s no feat for him to finish, though; within minutes, he’s cleaned off the plate and set it aside on the coffee table.

 

His hand rests against my abdomen, fingertips pushing away the folded fabric of my button down and resting against the skin between buttoned holes. In response, I cup the back of his neck with my palm, thumb stroking the soft back of his hairline.

 

I suppose it’s not hard to tell something's off, though, because every time he goes to meet my eyes, I’m off somewhere else. He stops after a bit, pulling back enough to look me straight on as his hands move mine to hold them.

 

It’s silent between us, him staring into my eyes as I seem to stare into his and right past him, mind clouding to a different life.

 

He swallows and pushes my hair back, knuckle gentle against my skin as he leans in and brushes a kiss to my lips. “Be back before the morning, alright?” he murmurs. I open my mouth, wanting to protest and ask why he knows, but he just shakes his head. “It’s Christmas; people seem to miss their families on Christmas.”

 

I shut my mouth after a moment, nodding my head slowly as my hands rest against his cheeks, pulling him into a kiss. He lets me, leaning over the seat and kissing me gently. He tastes like frosting and cinnamon. He tastes like I should probably stay home.

 

But yet, instead, he takes me by my shoulders and pushes me back. “Go,” he urges, smiling a bit. “My anniversary gift to you.”

 

“I thought the watch wa--”

 

“Second gift. I have a third one when you get home.”

 

I can’t help but snort to that, stealing a kiss from the corner of his lips before pulling myself up and going to put on my boots. It catches Oliver’s attention, who just opens his mouth and points to me wordlessly, but Simon’s got it covered. He gets up and sits beside him distracting him with his toys and saying “Daddy will be back soon, he’s just running an errand for me.” I pull my jacket on faster, sliding on gloves and a scarf before stepping out into the early evening air.

 

The ride there feels odd. Like a burnt in memory that I’ve left untouched for years, it carries me down the path without a second question, but rather an aching heart.

 

The trees all look the same; they always look the same. Rattling, dark, haunting. The magicks slowly seeped back into the area, but there’s still the stale feeling of a sinister brush in the wind. I realized early on, once I heard that they’d move back to the manor, that dark magick would never truly bother my family. They never much minded the banned section, so why should the remnants of the Humdrum be much a bother, so long as they can use their magick.

 

As I draw closer, the roads twist and wind like they do in my dreams, rocks kicking up from under the wheels. Each house around here’s illuminated with large, sparkling tree designs and festive decor on the inside that’s gaudy enough to be seen through the windows. It only grows with the old wealth; classical displays, mostly non-religious but rather “I have more money, here’s an old-timey sleigh in my front yard”. Pricks.

 

The sky grows darker as I near the house, the blues trickling away into the glow of the moon and the speckles of stars, clear as day out here.

 

Realistically, I should stop and drain a deer before I get there, in case something happens (I highly doubt any confrontation beyond verbal would ever happen, especially in my father’s growing old age, but it’s a possibility nonetheless). I don’t, though. I keep pushing through, slowly taking the front circle driveway and parking directly in front, stepping out and undoing the buttons to my coat.

 

I’m barely three steps forward before the door swings open, a much newer nanny appears at the door, looking at me with confusion before swiftly closing the door and scurrying off, probably to ask Daphne if they were expecting visitors.

 

My hand curls around the iron knocker, pounding down onto it three times before my hands stuff back into my pockets, eyes tracing over each and every carved in design of the front doors.

 

It doesn’t take long for Mordelia to answer the door, blinking at me. “Crowley,” she mutters first, looking me up and down. You can’t quite describe her reaction as “seeing a ghost”, but rather seeing someone that’d sworn your general family out of your life, but oh look, here they are on Christmas Eve night. “What the fuck are you--”

 

“Lovely to see you too,” I huff, rolling my eyes and pushing past her into the foyer. I must somewhat be allowed in; someone here still wants me inside.

 

Nothing’s changed; why would it? It’s like the poinsettias have grown into the woodwork, and the floating candles really add to the “We’re magickal, fuck you” feeling.

 

There’s an unceremonious clatter of metal and a high-classed, dramatic gasp from behind me, causing me to spin and grin a bit at Daphne, nodding my head. “Hello, Daphne. Where’s the rest? Would love to see them, for once.”

 

She, on the other hand, looks like she  _ has _ seen a ghost. When my father steps out of the conjoined room, he just looks rather… himself. It’s hard to tell anger from disappointment or fear on this man; it’s all one narrow-browed stare.

 

“Basilton.”

 

“Malcolm.”

 

“I thought it was established that we cut connections.”

 

I flash a clean, even smile at him as I rapidly approach him. “Oh, we did. We  _ definitely _ did; I just have something to discuss. No questions.”

 

The twins round the corner, and Benjamin sprints after with his shoes off, socks sliding against the hardwood floor. Poor kid, probably doesn’t remember me much.

 

“Baz?”

 

“Is that Baz?”

 

I ignore them, pressing on with a fake smile plastered across my face. “Poker room?”

 

“I don’t see why it’s necessary; if you have something to say, say it to the family.”

 

“ _ Your _ family, not mine anymore, apparently.” My hand wraps around his arm, practically dragging him off to the gentlemen’s poker room and throwing the locked latch on the door as Malcolm works himself into a huff, staring at me like an awful loon.

 

“You… how  _ could _ you? I thought you’d been raised better than to embarrass yourself and others around you at a--”

 

“Fuck you, let me talk,” I snap, glaring at him before fixing my shirt. It’s a basic button down, and I’m wearing everyday slacks, in comparison to his freshly pressed dinner suit and well-gelled hair. I am looking like a loon in this house.

 

He straightens out his shoulders, though, pressing his suit flat and glaring down at me (or rather, up; I’m taller than him, to my glee). “What is it that you demand on telling me?”

 

“You have a grandson,” I say sternly, face flat and eyes trying to desperately scan his face for any breaks. There is none. “He’s four years old; Simon and I adopted him.”

 

He’s silent, sitting against a table with his arms crossed against his chest and eyes raking up and down me judgmentally. He doesn’t even nod for me to continue, but I do it anyway.

 

“Smart as a whip; doesn’t talk much, but he can read whole books by himself, and he’s so powerful already. He’s going to make me so proud one day--fuck it, he already does.” My weight shifts, chin rising as I fight back the waver in my voice. “Why were you always so cold to me? What good did it do to only hurt instead of build me up? I see it, everyday, when I try to help him and tell him he’s good enough; that he’s doing well and that he’s loved. I try not to sink away; I try to be as kind as I can despite not knowing what parental kindness is supposed to look like.” Am I crying now? I think I might be crying, because something drips from my face, and my eyes are stinging.

 

Malcolm just stares further, focusing on my face now as his shoulders shift in discomfort.  _ Good, _ I think,  _ I hope I make you fucking uncomfortable. _

 

“Mum would’ve wanted you to be gentle; mum would’ve gone to the wedding. Mum would’ve wanted to see her first grandchild on his first Christmas nights, watching movies and tearing at the wrapping to his gifts. She would’ve wanted everything you’re not getting and won’t get, and I hope you know that.” I swallow at the lump in my throat, tears running down my cheeks as I catch them at my chin. I mumble a quick “Shit”, my sleeve wiping my face before I turn back to him. “You’re missing his first Christmas, Malcolm. You’re missing every little bit of him.”

 

The space between us stays stale, silence echoing the crackles of the fireplace in the nearest room. He lowers one leg from resting on the other, standing up fully and staring at me in silence. Narrow browed as ever, I suppose.

 

I clear my throat, running my hand back through my hair to brush it back. “That’s it--that’s all. I just needed to tell you that.”

 

He doesn’t even fucking nod.

 

I grab the lock and throw it open, stepping out of the room and leaving him leaned on the table as I step out. The kids are all semi-crowded, lurking in nearby rooms with ears pressed to doors or, in Mordelia’s case, she cast  **_Cup on a string_ ** , sitting with a ceramic mug against her ear to listen in. Everyone’s dead silent, staring at me as I close the parlor door behind me.

 

Slowly, they leak out into the common area and gaze at me. Benjamin just sort of narrows his eyes, bold enough to reach out and grab my sleeve before I start to make my way out. “Are you leaving us again?”

 

It stops me in my tracks, knocking the wind from my lungs. Am I leaving them?

 

I bend down slowly, getting onto one knee to look at him properly. He’s barely ten now, I suppose. “I need to go,” I say, hands folded atop of my thigh. “I’m not allowed to stay, but you can always see me if you want to.” My eyes drift to Daphne and Mordelia, who’re standing side by side in the dining room doorway, staring at me. My stepmother’s got her hands cupped over her mouth, and there’s a slight glimmer in her eyes. I can say what I want about my father, but I can never say that she never cared. It’s a shame she married such a monster. “There’s always someone who can take you to me.”

 

He nods up at me, taking one of my hands promptly from where it’s resting and shaking it properly, in two quick shakes before dropping it. “Okay,” he says, arm dropping to his side. “Happy Christmas, Basilton.”

 

There’s a soft echo of “Happy Christmas, Basilton” from behind me, and I can tell the twins are looming. I stand, swallowing down the guilt of abandoning them once again.

 

As I leave, Daphne catches me and spins me for a hug, briefly holding me by my neck with her arms before dropping away. “What’s his name?” she asks, hands folding at her waist.

 

“Oliver,” I say, a smile growing on my cheeks. “His name’s Oliver.”

 

“I’d love to meet him, if you’d let me,” she says gently, waiting for an invitation further into the life I’ve had locked away for so long. 

 

I bow my head, hands resting back into my pockets. “Of course you’re allowed to see him. My number’s never changed, you can call me on there and we’ll arrange a time.”

 

She nods her head back, wiping away a tear before patting my arm. “Go back to him,” she says softly before going to get the front door for me.

 

I wave a thank you, getting back into the car and pulling away. 

 

I keep the drive back dead silent, leaving the radio untouched and just the heat cranked up.

 

It’s still early enough that the lights are on by the time I’m home. As I shut the front door, Simon’s head lifts from the couch and his face greets me with a questioning smile. I slowly undo my scarf and jacket, looking over the scene.

 

Oliver stares up at the tree, laying on his stomach with his toy train forgotten about in the corner. He pokes a light, blinking silently and only looking away as I’m taking off my shoes. He stares at me for a good minute before turning his head back, poking at lights curiously.

 

I slide next to Simon wordlessly, pressing my face deeply into his neck and wrapping my arms tightly around his waist. His only protests are laughs of “Oi, there’s coffee in my hands, give us a second.” To which he sets the coffee aside and drapes his arms against my shoulder blades, giving me a good hug in.

 

His skin’s like home. His skin  _ is _ home. Everything about him, everything around us, is home.

 

The brush of his knuckles against my back, the way his tail wraps around my ankle, the grounding kisses of his lips to my hair. It’s all home to me.

 

“Daphne wants to meet Oliver,” I whisper against him, my hands pushing around his shirt to try to wiggle it up enough to let them press against him. “I told her she could. I think she should.”

 

Simon’s chin rests against my head, his hands pulling me in as I relax, exhaling slowly.

 

“It’s your choice, my love,” he says, “it’s always your choice to let her.”

 

I nod, eyes squeezing shut. “My… my fa--Malcolm didn’t seem to care much, but it’s fine. He knows, so it’s fine.”

 

He lets me talk, rubbing my back as I just go silent and tug him closer, feeling the beating of his heart tapping against mine and calming me down. I breathe with him, letting every bit of his energy in and every bit of bad out.

 

My head lifts and turns, scooting down to rest against Simon’s chest as I watch the telly and Oliver.

 

It doesn’t take long before Oliver starts to nod off, head falling into his arms before bobbing back up again.

 

I pat Simon’s chest, kissing his chin before standing and going to get on my knees in front of Oliver, making sure he’s aware that it’s me before picking him up (he tends to panic if he’s not sure). He curls to my shoulder, hand resting against my shirt and holding the material in his fist. I try step carefully as to not creak the stairs as I ascend them, holding Oliver securely to me.

 

The door to his room creeps open with a nudge of my toe, the moonlight filtering over his bed and mixing with the soft glow of his nearby nightlight.

 

I lower him down into bed, careful when I drag the blankets up to him and smoothing back his hair. Quietly, I whisper “Goodnight, I love you,” before standing straight up and going to turn, except he stops me, his hand grabbing mine and saying something that makes me do a double take.

 

“Daddy?” he whispers groggily, rubbing his eye with his free hand.

 

I blink, freezing involuntarily as I process what he said. He… he called me…

 

Crowley, I’m crying again. It’s silent again, but coming on much faster. “Yes, love?” I whisper, voice cracking as I gently hold his hand.

 

“Makes sure to leave cookies for Santa,” he mumbles, giving my index finger a squeeze before turning on his side and dropping my arm. He’s asleep in a blink, hug-choking his bear as he dozes off.

 

I bite my lip, sniffling and smiling to myself as I close the door and make my way down the stairs to set up the treats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof ouch owie i know this chapter took a while to publish and the next one will too, but there's only a couple more chapters to go (16 is actually an epilogue)
> 
> if you ever wanna shout at me for not posting, my tumblr is @neck-mole. no absolute guarantees, but hopefully i'll finish this fic by Christmas !!!


	14. First Holiday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiona turns to me, smiling and sighing. “Happy fucking Christmas.”
> 
> -
> 
> Oliver's first Christmas day proves to be a long one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof ouch owie hi yeah sorry for the long wait! i'm finally on winter break now and wow. i wanted to get this finished before christmas, but that's proving to be more difficult than anticipated.
> 
> what i can promise, though, is that this will be finished by new years. so, yeah, two updates in the next week (well, one chapter left, then an epilogue)!

**SIMON**

 

The sound of knocking wood floods into my dream, which suddenly bursts into morning. My eyes fly open, breath catching in the air as the door knocks again before opening. Slowly, I peel myself away from Baz’s back (who is definitely awake now, but seems like he’s trying to act asleep; lovely). There’s a quiet “Daddy?” behind the door before it creaks open, the tiny figure of Oliver peering through the sliver before it pushed open entirely. He’s got his sleeve in his mouth, nervously chewing on the fabric as he steps in. I grin, sitting up and subtly poking Baz’s back to nudge him awake.

 

“Good morning,” I pipe, offering my hands out to him and waiting for his nod before scooping him up into my arms. “You’re up early?”

 

His sleeve drops from his mouth, hands clinging to my tee as he looks back out the door. “Father Christmas,” he says clearly before grinning. “Christmas! Christmas!”

 

I blink and grin, loudly saying “Father Christmas, huh?” as I send back a look at Baz, who’s now sprawled out face-down and snoring again. I shouldn’t quite tut, but I can’t help it; the prick’s trying to sleep in on Christmas. “Hey, Ollie,” I whisper, “do you think you can wake daddy up?”

 

He peers at Baz around me, taking a minute before nodding silently, wiggling in my arms.

 

I set him onto the bed, sitting at the end as he crawls over and sits beside Baz’s head, prodding his shoulder. Baz’s head immediately lifts, eyes focusing on Oliver before his nose crinkles and his lips turn upwards slightly. “‘S it Christmas already?” Oliver’s head nods.

 

Baz’s body hauls up, head rolling with his shoulders. “Let’s see what Father Christmas brought then.”

 

Oliver grins again, reaching out on the bed and wrapping his hand around his index finger. In what seems like a so slowly yet all at once, Baz holds his hand as Oliver lifts his arms to be held. I don’t quite have a moment to take in the miracle as Baz picks him up and carries him out the door, the sound of his footsteps thumping against the staircase filling the house in moments. I grab my cell, immediately texting Penn ‘merry christmas x’ before taking it down with me.

 

As I descend the stairs, I glance over towards the tree, where Oliver’s sat in front of and patting at gifts on the ground. He picks up one, shaking it a few times before looking at me and holding it up. “Christmas!”

 

I chuckle, taking a seat beside him. He sets the gift in front of me, watching me with wide eyes as I laugh and shake my head. “No, love, it’s for you.” I slide it back towards him. “Here, rip the paper--”

 

“Wait for me!” Baz calls out, echoing from the kitchen. “Crowley, can’t you wait for me to finish making tea?”

 

Oliver starts tugging at the side away, his hands picking at the tape and barely managing to peel away a flap by the time Baz makes his way in, two steaming mugs in his hands. He takes a seat on the other side of Oliver, passing me my mug as his settles on the ground beside him. Wordlessly, he starts helping unwrap presents, setting aside the discarded papers and bows.

 

With each gift, Oliver takes a full minute to play with it, seeming absolutely enthralled with the mere motion that he has plenty of new toys in front of him. Baz and I exchange glances a few times throughout the course of the hour and a half that it takes to open 15 presents, eventually linking hands on the floor behind Ollie’s back as he busies himself with the pile in front of him.

 

It’s warm, figuratively and literally. The heat’s on full blast and it’s always warm to me, but there’s a sense of belonging between the three of us. We don’t say too much, just smile and admire.

 

Eventually, I let go of Baz’s hand, collecting our mugs and taking a bit more effort than I’d care to admit to get me off the floor. In the kitchen, I start up breakfast, whisking together french toast mix and pouring eggs into a pan, barely taking a moment to start heating up the muffins I’d bought yesterday morning  _ and _ cook the sausages on a separate burner

 

The sound of crackling oils as the soggy bread hits the pan fills the kitchen, the smell wafting into the living room after a few minutes and dragging both of my boys into the room to see. Baz, being somewhat on top of it, manages to get some plates while snagging a cooling link, popping it into his mouth and setting the table. Ollie just stays by my leg, hand latching to the fabric of my flannel pajamas as he peers up at the food. I poke at the finished pieces of toast and cut off a strip, handing it down to him to nibble on.

 

We silently gather once it's all done, Baz and I sitting on opposite sides of the small dining table as we all tuck into the meal.

 

It's a comfortable silence. The only sound breaking it, beyond the soft clink and clatter of forks settling to plates or knifes hitting the other metal utensils, is the gentle rattling of the wind against the windowpane.

 

As we wrap up, Baz nudges my arm. “Still down to visit Fi?” he asks gently, sipping his slowly emptying coffee mug.

 

“Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?”

 

Baz gives me a rare shrug before glancing at Oliver. “City traffic is a nightmare, and I don't want us to waste away a special Christmas day.”

 

I shrug back, gathering finished dishes as my seat scrapes back. “I think it'd be worth it. Plus, we can go see the lights.”

 

“Li’s!” Oliver exclaims as I pass, looking up to me. “Li's li's li's.”

 

Chuckling, I ruffle his hair. “Yes dear, holiday lights.”

 

With a look, Baz and I agree that we have to go now.

 

Getting out the door isn't exactly impossible. I took charge of the dishes, singing holiday songs to myself as Baz, being (somewhat of) an angel, got Oliver ready. It only took about an hour before we were all buckled and settled into our seats. The hard part, though, was the drive.

 

After an exhausting wait through city traffic and increasingly pissed off Baz, we finally arrive and round the block three times before finding a spot close enough to Fiona's flat. With Oliver fast asleep in my arms and Baz bitching about the car that cut us off a few minutes ago, we finally make it inside.

 

“Awh, the little devil's asleep,” she whisper-speaks, grinning and hugging us before narrowing her eyes at Baz. “Why the stick up your ass, kid?”

 

“People give me headaches,” he grumbles, pulling off his jacket.

 

Fiona turns to me, smiling and sighing. “Happy fucking Christmas.”

 

“Happy fucking Christmas,” I laugh back, following Baz into the living room. She's got her usual decorations up, as well as extra wrapped presents underneath the tree. It's all so comfortingly familiar.

 

Oliver's starting to wake up in my arms, tugging on my shirt to be let down. Once down, he looks around before walking over to the tree to stare at the lights in wonder. 

 

Whenever he does that, it makes me think of all those years filled with sad, nearly dead trees in the in-between homes when I was little. They almost seemed like a taunt; a mockery that we didn't have families to spend the holidays with. I wonder if he’ll even remember his lonely years when he grows up.

 

I hope he doesn't remember his lonely years. I hope he knows he's loved.

 

After settling on the sofa and being followed by Baz beside me, I watch the scene of Fi and Oliver unfold. Honestly, it surprised me whenever I watch them together; Fi probably would have made an interesting mum. Not exactly a “good” one, since I have faith that she'd end up leading a gang of children in a magickal bank heist while teaching them how to smoke, but definitely interesting.

 

She talks softly with him, pulling an ornament or two off the tree for him to play with as she speaks. Thankfully, he doesn't try anything silly and instead just rolls the glittery plastic balls around as Fiona goes on about how she once set a town’s tree on fire and didn't get caught.

 

The soft crackle of her fireplace fills the room with a soothing ambiance, which, despite his previously riled up tensions, melts Baz away into my arms. Absentmindedly, my fingers card through his hair as we listen to Fiona's rambling. She eventually sends a look us, raising her eyebrows.

 

“Why don't you two sleep in the guest room? Getting here must’ve been a pain.”

 

We exchange a quick look before nodding, standing up together.

 

“He eats dinner usually in about half an hour. He’s willing to eat green beans and carrots--”

 

“Yeah yeah I know. Healthy shit, taking care, I know. Promise I won't let him into my Xanax bottle, just go and take a fucking nap.”

 

I want to say “Language” to remind her, but Baz is practically dragging me down the hall and into the dark quest room. With shoes already off, Baz tugs me onto the bed and chastely kisses me.

 

“Set an alarm for two hours,” he mumbles, lips still in tact. “Don't wanna sleep through the night.”

 

It takes a bit of effort to break the kiss, since Baz seems intent on being locked together, but I scrunch my nose at him and break off. “Why not? Fiona's got control of Oliver, and we get  _ uninterrupted sleep _ .”

 

“Why do you make even that sound seductive?”

 

“Because a full night's sleep is the sexiest thing I can think of right now.”

 

He breaks into a grin, chuckling softly and pecking my lips. “Want me to spell your wings out?”

 

I shrug, combing a hand into his hair again. “Mm gonna sleep on em, does it matter?”

 

He nods slightly, face tucking into my chest. “Suppose not,” he whispers before settling down against my jumper and falling asleep in minutes. I set my alarm and doze off soon after.

 

We're awaken by electronic chirps, my hand grabbing around and taking hold of the phone before sliding it silent. The room's still, filled only by the soft gliding of car tires over asphalt and the laughter of passersby. It makes me a little nostalgic for city living, while simultaneously making me love living in a surrounding silent even more.

 

Baz shifts in my arms, nose digging into my neck before he yawns quietly. There's not much to protest here; while theoretically we should be getting up, there’s no harm in basking in the moment. It's warm and private and it's simply the best gift we could get for Christmas.

 

His lips find mine, meeting them briefly before settling against my cheek, my brow, and my forehead. As my hand slides down his back, he shifts his hips and lets me untuck his shirt before sneaking my hand against his skin.

 

Eventually, we find it in ourselves to pull apart.

 

“You can rest for a bit longer,” I whisper, lips pressing to his jaw. “‘M just gonna check on Ollie and Fi.”

 

He just nods his head, patting my hip before I head off, watching him nose dive into my pillow.

 

On the way to the living room, I can already hear it.

 

“I don’t think Die Hard is a good movie for a toddler,” I complain, padding into the room only to find both Oliver and Fiona asleep on the couch as the film plays. Most lights are off, and the gifts Fiona got for Ollie are unwrapped and out (including “A Child's Guide to Anarchy”). He's peaceful, at least; he's all resting against her chest as she's got her head leaned back and lolled to the side. By the state of the kitchen, she seemed to just make him some macaroni and cheese with a side of cake. Brilliant.

 

Poor kid must’ve crashed. Both of them, in all realism.

 

Tiptoeing around the room and gathering trash, I tidy up the place in payment for the guilt of making her babysit.

 

While I settle the dishes in the sink, she snaps awake and blinks around. “Oi,” I hear whispered behind me. “You don't have to fuss.”

 

I shrug, walking back into the living room and gathering discarded wrapping paper. “I feel bad. It’s effort to care for a kid.”

 

“Wonder why I didn't have any,” she quips, grinning. “Take a seat. Rest, will ya?”

 

Reluctantly, I settle back into an armchair (but only after I throw out what's in my hands).

 

“So,” she starts, still keeping a whisper as Oliver’s head turns against her. “What's all that happened to moving to Watford?”

 

I shrug, looking down. “We're still renovating the barn. Baz took a year’s job as a fill in at a uni to make sure we don't dip into savings to keep up, but we should be in by late spring.” I smile slightly, looking at the tree as I talk. “It'll be nice. Oliver quite likes animals, so I’m hoping he’ll tend to goats with me. After all, I quit my job to stay at home with him.”

 

She nods slowly, looking down at Oliver before following my gaze. “Tasha would be proud of Baz. Going off and teaching at Watford; family tradition. Never knew if he'd follow it, after that prick of a father tried to force him into banking, or some shit.”

 

My lip draws up slowly, eyes closing as I nod. I think back to all the nights of uni where Baz would complain, then to his first year of teaching. To every time he's smiled in reference to a classroom, to education. To every time he was happy doing what he loved. “Yeah,” I say softly, letting myself exhale. “I'm proud of him, too.”


	15. All That Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon drops his head against my shoulder and curls a hand around my bicep as his wings spread like a blanket on top of us. “You’re such a fucking downer,” he whispers teasingly. “Lighten up, angst god.”
> 
> -
> 
> In hopes to connect Oliver to his somewhat estranged family, Baz invites Daphne and his siblings over for lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp, here we are! the last real chapter! next chapter's an epilogue, but this is the last part following the timeline (the epilogue takes place years into the future). i hope y'all like it!

**BAZ**

 

Napkins, tablecloth, place settings… where’s the glasses? Oh god, oh fuck, where are the placement glasses?

 

“Simon!” I call, rushing into the kitchen area as he’s taking out our lovely porcelain teapot. “Where’s our glasses?”

 

Blinking, he stares up at me for a second. “I… In the china cabinet. Why? Didn’t you put some out already?”

 

“I put out the _wine_ glasses, not the water glasses,” I whine, rushing over to the cabinet and throwing it open, eyes searching urgently. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck…”

 

A warm hand rests against the bottom curve of my back, smoothing back the fabric of my quite uptight button down. It only takes a few seconds before I relax back, exhaling and focusing on the slow dragging of his palm. It’s grounding; resting all heavy and light at the same time. Comforting. It’s all I could have ever asked for in life.

 

“I’m sorry,” I exhale, eyes slowly falling shut. “It’s just… nerve wracking.”

 

“I know,” he whispers back as his fingers push up my spine, weaving between each dip. “It’s just your step mum and siblings. It isn’t like it’s the Prime Minister or something.”

 

My hand reaches for the glasses, starting to stack them in my hands. “They might as well be,” I mumble, shifting my weight before heading off into the dining room to set them up. With trembling hands, I settle them up nearly in line with the plates, trying to calm myself. It doesn’t quite work.

 

Simon stands in the doorway, shoulder leaned up against the frame as he smiles the saddest smile I’ve ever seen on him.

 

Each step he takes forward creaks against the newly done floorboards.

 

It’s such an odd housewarming; having your somewhat estranged family coming into your new house right off your old school’s campus to meet your somewhat newly adopted son is… a lot, to say the least. It’s a nice house now, and it’s quite pretty since it’s done up properly, but Crowley, is it driving me off the deep end.

 

“Baz, my love,” Simon coaxes, his hands reaching out and taking hold of mine, “just take a second away from all this. Remember what we used to do? Center in, focus, breathe.”

 

My eyes search his as I shakily inhale, gripping onto him as we keep each other’s gaze. With an encouraging smile and soothing rubs of his thumbs, Simon leads me in careful deep breaths.

 

“I love you,” I say after a minute or two. “I’m sorry. It just matters. A _lot_.”

 

“I know it does, love,” he interlocks our fingers, “but we’re in this together. We’ve faced an awful lot of shit, so how bad could this be?”

 

“A chimera worth.”

 

He laughs, which finally lets me exhale as I watch him smile. “Not quite a chimera worth.”

 

I try to open my mouth in protest, but he leans in and kisses me before I get to speak.

 

After pulling off, he grins and kisses my knuckles. “I need to finish lunch, if you ever want something to serve. Will you check on Ollie?”

 

My head nods before the rest of my body follows, lips pulling into a tight line as I swallow back my anxieties. I take a fast-footed walk to the playroom, knocking lightly before pushing it open. On the floor, laying out with a few books, sits Oliver. He scans over pages, flipping through after reading them quickly and moving on. There’s music playing from the small stereo; one of the classical playlists I’d put together (no son of mine won’t have class).

 

His head lifts up, smiling a little at me before waving me over. “Mummies,” he says softly, pointing at his book. “Mummies.”

 

Kneeling down, I ruffle his hair and smile. “You’re right, darling, they are mummies.” I lean in, whispering, “They used to use magick in mage's tombs to protect from robbers. There was a family seal in some caskets belonging to powerful families, like ours.”

 

There's a bright sparkle in his eyes as he grins up at me. “Can we see them?”

 

Something catches in my throat, choking me up and nearly bringing me to tears as I let myself smile. “Of course we can, little puff. We can absolutely see the family over there.” My head bows, kissing his hair. “But now, we have to get ready to see the family coming here, alright? Ready to see grandnan?”

 

He nods quickly and pops up onto his feet, taking hold of my hand and tugging me out of the room. “Daddy says nice clothes.”

 

My heart swells as I nod, pulling myself back up to my feet before following his lead to his bedroom, to where he points to his closet. Compliantly, I pick out a proper outfit and help him dress (although, he does most of it; stubborn five year old, this one). Once he’s awfully proud of how he looks, he gives me a confirmation nod before I pick him up and carry him to the dining room.

 

“There he is, the shining star,” Simon jokes, popping out of the kitchen. “Will you help me finish pulling the hand pies out of the oven, love.”

 

“I’ll do it!” Oliver volunteers, but Simon just rolls his eyes, hands him a biscuit, and sends him off (ever his father’s son, needing a food bribe to go away).

 

As I’m sliding the baking tray off the rack, I hear my husband’s voice beside me. “So when are we expecting the Grimm brigade?”

 

“Quarter to noon,” I say, carefully setting the hot tray down. “How long’ve we got?”

 

“Ten minutes.”

 

“Well, fuck,” I mumble, nose turning up as I try to exhale.

 

Simon drops his head against my shoulder and curls a hand around my bicep as his wings spread like a blanket on top of us. “You’re such a fucking downer,” he whispers teasingly. “Lighten up, angst god.”

 

“Fuck off, you idiotic twat,” I whisper endearingly back, closing my eyes as my head rests on top of his. He hums softly in contentment, hands finding mine and holding them securely as the ends of his curls tickle my face.

 

It isn't long before there’s a heavy, two hit knock at the door, causing me to peel myself back from the comforting embrace. Before I can say a word, Snow rocks onto the balls of his feet to give me a soft kiss of encouragement. The twinkle in his eyes and the spread of his smile makes me feel like I could own the world.

 

The door swings open to Daphne, Mordelia, the twins, and Benjamin, waiting with intrigue and welcome baskets. Immediately, Benjamin latches to my legs in a hug before saying a quick hello, which is followed by a chorus of them. I hug them each, waving them inside and politely taking the gifts.

 

“Oh this is awfully lovely,” Daphne says, an air of sophistication in her voice that I've heard myself distance from over the years. It’s somewhat grounding to hear, like life’s reminder that some things never change.

 

“We just moved in a month ago.” I take their light coats, hanging them in the side closet. “Since I don't start teaching until fall, we're just spending time getting settled through the rest of spring. If the children want, they can go see the goats later.”

 

“Is it clean--”

 

“As clean as can be,” I say softly, smiling.

 

Her head nods tightly, hands resting together in a delicate and poised fashion. “So long as it's safe.” Scanning the room, she seems to trail in thought before bringing it back. “Where's Oliver?”

 

“Most likely in the playroom; excuse me. Perhaps Simon will show you to the dining room..?”

 

As if on command, he pops into the room with a smile. “Follow me,” he nods, waving them off to the table. I find Oliver back to his books and lift him into my arms, pressing a kiss to his temple.

 

“There's other kids here, okay, my dear? They're nice.”

 

He glances around the room, peering over my shoulder as he speaks. “Grandnan?”

 

“Grandnan's in there too. Are you ready?”

 

He nods his head surely, pulling at the sleeves of his jumper before holding onto my shirt.

 

Walking down the hall and stepping into the room feels like a gamble. I don't doubt he'll be loved by her, but Crowley, what if not enough? He doesn't really have any biological grandparents who'll be here for him, and I'd rather not have him living so separated from any sort of family. Of course, he's met Dev and Niall before and loves Fiona, but that’s the only family he knows of. Simply put, he deserves a normal fucking life. Not that he'll ever get a _Normal_ life, but a typical, full-familied life.

 

The moment we step in, my worries melt away. Daphne grins and offers out her arms to him, cooing motherly in greeting as she takes his hands and shakes them. Even through lunch, she insists on him sitting next to her. To her credit, she tries countlessly to make conversation, but, Ollie being Ollie, gives his typical word or few before going back to eating. She sends me a look or two of somewhat concern, but I shrug in response. I'd warned her of his Simon-like nonverbal tendencies, but I suppose she anticipated a little more communication anyway.

 

He does seem to warm up to her, though, in his own way. As Simon offers to show the group the goats, Oliver gives Daphne a hug before running off to the new barn.

 

She and I stay back, pouring each other in a brief silent exchange of glances. “So…” I begin.

 

“He’s quite quiet,” she says softly, cautious to not offend, “but he’s awfully sweet.”

 

With a loose smile, I nod my head and take a glance at his finished plate. “He's a brilliant listener, just not the best talker. He is a doll, though. Excited every time he gets something new, as if he didn't expect to ever get anything at all. Makes my chest tug a little.” Lifting the teacup to my lips, I hesitate to continue my thought. I do anyway. “I simply wished he could interact with more people. Simon and I don't have a lot of friends together, besides each other and Mitali Bunce's daughter, so it's hard to get Oliver used to new people when we barely have anyone we see ourselves.”

 

We're silent for a few beats, my attention locked to my porcelain cup as it tips towards my mouth and lowers back to the plate.

 

I find Daphne's eyes searching mine; studying my features in hopes to pull out an answer. “You know, your father doesn't hate who you are. He just… doesn't like who you married. He takes it out on class without thought to compassion.”

 

“He never quite put thought to compassion,” I bite, voice steadily quiet. Daphne just looks apologetic.

 

“He does sometimes, it's just difficult to find those moments.”

 

With pursed lips and a fearful gaze, I meet her eyes. “I don’t mean to hate him for how he is, I’m just upset with how he chooses not to change it.”

 

She gives me a motherly smile, reaching out to settle a hand on top of mine. “He's the product of his upbringing, and the upbringing before that, and the upbringing before that. Sometimes it’s hard to break what we train ourselves for, isn't that true?” Her fingertip runs along my wedding band. “Everyone has a crack in their mask. It’s just taking longer for his to chip away.”

 

I exhale, lowering my gaze down to the tablecloth and letting us sit in silence as I mull it over. I won't expect anything, of course, but it's somewhat comforting to know that someone's on my side. _Our_ side; my family's side.

 

“Thank you for coming to lunch,” I say at last, letting her have a smile. “It means a lot for _him_ to have this.”

 

“Of course,” she waves, “don’t be such a stranger, and we won't be either. Has Mordelia visited before today? I know classes are over in a week, but you're still _so_ close...”

 

“No, but I know how classes go. She doesn't want to spend time with a five year old and two adults.”

 

Daphne wrinkles her nose to that. “I'll see if I can talk her into some afternoon teas. She is a young teen, after all.”

 

“That she is,” I smile, exhaling slowly before standing. “I'm going to tidy up, if you don't mind. Feel free to go out back and check on the kids.”

 

She does so, leaving me a short bit of time to think (and think, and think) about what was said.

 

They don't stay for too much longer, leading to everyone exchanging hugs. To my delight, it seems like Oliver gets along with Benjamin quite well.

 

Their departure is sweet, a waving send off before Oliver yawns and proclaims that his nap time is now. Simon graciously volunteers to put him off, joining me back in the living room once he’s done.

 

“So… what was the talk about?”

 

I settle back onto the couch, sinking into the fibers as I get myself relax. “My father. Oliver. Nothing much else.” His head falls to my shoulder, settling there as his hand drops to my thigh and traces shapes onto my skin.

 

“Not bad talking, right?”

 

“Not at all,” I murmur, turning my head to settle on his. ”I'm not entirely sure my father will ever truly come around, not that it really matters.”

 

Our palms settle together, light hitting my wedding band as his fingers thread through mine. He doesn’t push me to say anything, just settles his head against my shoulder and lets me finish my thoughts on my own time.

 

“We have Daphne, though. And Bunce, and Fiona. And he’s happy, so I think that’s all that does truly matter, after all.”


	16. All Grown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey,” I whisper, kneeling down onto the grass and smiling at him. “You're going to love this.” My hand reaches up, brushing his curls back (he cuts and wears his hair like me). “Your father will be on campus with you if you ever need to see him, and I'm just down the hill. What's the worst that could happen?”
> 
> -
> 
> Flash forward to Oliver's first day at Watford. Cue fatherly doting, tears, and school anxieties.

**SIMON**

 

“Have you got everything you--”

 

“ _ Dad _ …”

 

“Mobile, wand, books--”

 

“Dad, I’m fine--”

 

“Shit, charger, did you grab that? Posters, calendar, planner--”

 

“Simon,” Baz sighs, his hand clasping over my shoulder as I fuss. He rolls his eyes and presses a gentle kiss to my hair. “He’s going up the hill, not half the country away.”

 

I’ve got my hands trying to fix Oliver’s hair, which decided to not quite sit properly this morning. The expression on his face is an absolute mix of boredom and threatening. Beside him sits the trolley of his trunk and books, and he’s got his wand sticking out of his pocket.

 

“I know that,” I mumble, hands resting under his jaw and tilting his head up. “I’m just worried, that’s all.”

 

In response, he scrunches his nose and tries to wiggle himself free (oh, he thinks I’m embarrassing  _ now _ , just wait). “It’s just Watford.”

 

“It’s  _ moving out _ ,” I remind, my thumb running over his birthmark. “It’s a big step.”

 

Ollie peers up, pulling his shoulders up in a halfhearted shrug. “It's _just_ Watford, dad,” he reiterates.

 

Biting my lip, I nod and let go of him as he lets out a  _ hmph _ . He takes hold of his trolly, capturing the fabric of my sleeve with one hand and giving it a tug. I steal a look at Baz, who simply rests a hand on my back before we take the stroll up the hill to the moat's bridge.

 

The steadily increasing waves of magick wash over us as we push our way through, Baz’s hand swiping over the gates nostalgically as we walk past the second and third ones. A few people on campus are making their ways through. Families, students young and old, and teachers spread out among the green grass and old buildings. Ever since we'd moved here, the magickal thrum has become more and more bearable. I sort of like it now, the ambiance of power. Everyone's existing so freely, and I can finally go out of the house with my wings unspelled.

 

A few people look at me. A few people whisper about me. My wings, and my tail. The name.

 

My magick used to be a beacon for mages to stare, but now it’s just the legend of me that attracts them. The one who defeated the Mage; the Humdrum himself. Dark and light, all in one fucked up person, and so on and so forth.

 

Baz stops us near most of the other first years, who’re waiting impatiently with at least a parent as everyone sits around for the official start of the ceremony.

 

“I need to run off to my classroom,” he says gently into my ear, hand running along my lower back. “I might not make it to the Crucible calling, but I'll come home for tea.” His lips gently press to the side of my head before he bends down, telling Oliver how proud he is and that he loves him. He kisses his curls and hugs him, then heads towards his classroom.

 

We wave him off, standing side by side at least two yards from the family clump.

 

I feel Oliver’s hand wind around mine, and I catch his worrying face. “Yes dear?”

 

“What if my roommate doesn't like me? What if he thinks I'm weird?”

 

“Your father and I tried to kill each other multiple times. You’ll be fine.”

 

His mouth flies open in defense, then he squints and shrugs. “Okay. Fair.” He holds onto my hand, peering around and sticking close to my side.

 

“Hey,” I whisper, kneeling down onto the grass and smiling at him. “You're going to love this.” My hand reaches up, brushing his curls back (he cuts and wears his hair like me). “Your father will be on campus with you if you ever need to see him, and I'm just down the hill. What's the worst that could happen?”

 

“Death.”

 

I snort. “Doesn't work quite like that. Maybe a bad grade, or maybe you suck at football like me. But is that the end of the world?” He shakes his head. “No. Of course not.”

 

He looks at his trunk before looking back at me, trying to smile as his lip trembles. I hold his hands tighter before he has a chance to say anything else. 

 

“Your father and I love you so much,” I whisper. “I'm here for you no matter what, and you're our world. We might not be here to tuck you in at night, but we'll always be in your heart. Okay?”

 

He nods. “You're crying, dad.”

 

I smile. I laugh and nod and fucking hell, I cry. “I know, my dear. I'm not sad, I’m just proud.”

 

He frowns and lets go of my hands before hugging me. “I’ll be home for tea tomorrow,” he says quietly, arms tightly around my shoulders. I just nod, hugging him back for a good minute before he lets go and holds onto my wing.

 

I stand back up, and he moves to hold my tail, wordlessly looking out among the others of his class.

 

The clock strikes noon, and thus the ceremony begins.

 

He lets go, glancing at me nervously as I nod encouragingly. “Follow your heart,” I mouth, smiling.

 

At first, he does. He stumbles, looking around urgently as his hands spread out in front of him. In a panic, he sends a look back to me in hopes of an answer, but I just shake my head and wave him onwards.

 

He resists for a minute, looking around the crowd nervously before he takes shaky steps forward. One by one, leading him out onto the small cluster of a group. Granted, there’s not too many to a class at Watford; it looks like there’s only about 20, including Ollie.

 

I see a boy with bright blue hair and familiar, pixie-like ears extends a hand to him, leading to a hesitant hand grasping between Oliver and him before Ollie turns his head to me and grins. I can tell the boy is talking to him--talking about me. Ollie shrugs, saying something to him quickly before dragging him over towards where I’m standing.

 

The other boy bounces closer, grinning up at me curiously. “You're Simon Snow!”

 

“Am I?” I joke, ruffling Oliver’s hair (and deserving me a disapproving pout). “Yes I am. Well, sort of, I'm Simon Pitch, now. You--”

 

“I'm Samuel! You went to classes with my mums, Trixie and Keris!” Merlin, Penn's going to have a field day with this.

 

I spot them on the other side, waving to me happily and making me kindly wave back.

 

The boys exchange quick and excited exclamations about their room before Ollie waves at him, saying he'll meet him there before turning to me and hugging me tightly.

 

My mouth flies open, searching for the words for me to ask him what's wrong. He beats me to it, whispering a soft “I love you, dad,” letting go, grabbing his trolley, and running off.

 

I manage to keep my composure enough to wave at him and watch him disappear into the Mummer's House, the doors flooding with the groups of students going to find their rooms. It sinks in the moment he's out of sight, and I can't hold back the tears pricking my eyes.

 

Trixie and her wife find me as I’m practically blubbering into my hands, prompting Keris to bump my shoulder. “Grow up too fast?” she asks, smiling sadly.

 

“That's a bit cliché,” I mumble out, smiling weakly as I wipe my eyes with my sleeves. “Good to see you two.”

 

Trixie joins me on my other side, draping an arm over me as she offers up her handkerchief. I take it. “‘Course. Where's Baz?”

 

“His classroom, but he’ll be back for tea.” I exhale, shoulders dropping as I sniffle. “Care to join? We live right off campus…”

 

They exchange a few back and forth nods before they jointly say “Love to”, followed by a cheerful sigh from Trixie, who pats my shoulder.

 

“After all, we’ve got some years to catch up on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoooly shit, i can't believe this is done. thank you so much to everyone who stuck around for this story. while i'm happy to wrap up, i know i'm always going to love and miss Oliver.
> 
> i hope you guys liked this story as much as i enjoyed writing it!


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